


My Life's Come Off Its Tracks

by mimblexwimble



Series: Tracks [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aphasia, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Weechesters, hurt!Dean, mute!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-15
Updated: 2010-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 14:16:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimblexwimble/pseuds/mimblexwimble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Dean tells her, things are going fine, yeah he got into a fight and no, he doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s getting better and better at this sign language thing. He looks at her brightly. Big smile. Opens his swollen eye as wide as it can go. Ouch, shit.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a hoodie-time challenge. Thank you to shescheeky and ratherastory for their help.

“My dad said when moms forget how to be moms they disappear.”

It’s Stan talking. Sam’s only been at this school for a little while, but he still thinks Stan’s sort of stupid because he uses his fingers for the glue instead of a paintbrush and licks them afterwards. The teacher tells him not to every time, but he does it again and again and again. Sam guesses you have to be really stupid to not listen like that.

“Don’t lie,” says Amy. She’s coloring a tree orange. Max told her that trees weren’t orange, _dumbhead_ , but Sam said that they were orange sometimes, like when it was fall, and then Max shut up.

Amy sounds a little scared, so Sam looks up from his ball of green Play-Doh.

“That’s what my dad said,” says Stan. He uncaps a blue marker and scribbles in a cloud. All the kids here do that – color the clouds blue and leave the sky white.

“Moms can’t forget how to be moms,” says Amy. “They – they – they _have_ to be moms.”

“Yeah,” says Max. There’s a bird sitting on a rock in his picture, and a shield. Paper with words on it is coming out of the bird’s mouth. 

Dad says Max in the kind of person who has an Opinion About Everything. Sam’s not sure what that means.

“It’s what my dad said,” Stan shrugs. He’s not looking at them, only at his paper. “It happened to my mom.”

“She disappeared?” asks Sam.

“Yeah,” Stan says. “She forgot how to be a mommy and then one day, she was just gone.”

Everyone’s quiet after that, even Max.

“My mommy wouldn’t forget,” Amy says softly.

“I never seen your mom, Sam,” says Max.

“She doesn’t like coming outside,” Sam says.

He squishes his Play-Doh between his fist and doesn’t say another word.

-

Sam asked Daddy once, why he and Dean didn’t have a mom. All the other kids that he’d met had one.

Daddy didn’t say anything at all for a long time, and then he finally said she went away, before getting up and getting a bottle out of the refrigerator. Dean took Sam away then, to play in the park behind the motel, and nobody said anything more about it.

Once after that though, Sam asked Dean if maybe their mom hadn’t liked him, and that’s why she was gone, but Dean had looked at him and said, “Don’t be _stupid_ , Sam,” and sounded really angry, so Sam had stopped talking.

So he thinks, even though Stan is usually stupid, maybe Stan’s dad isn’t, and maybe Sam’s mom and Stan’s mom are the same. 

Maybe Sam’s mom forgot how to be a mommy and disappeared and that’s why nobody talks about her anymore.

-

Sam made up a mommy once, when he was littler.

He did it a lot then – made things up. He used to have a friend named Mary too, because he liked that name and Dad was always saying it when he was sleeping.

Sam’s mom in his head was pretty. Really pretty. She had red hair and really green eyes, just like Dean’s. And she could sing and read stories and she would listen to Sam talking at night and not tell him to go to sleep, like Dean usually did. She liked the word “fascinating”. She would say it a lot.

Then once, Dean heard him. They had a big fight. Sam can remember crying a lot. He used to be a real crybaby then.

He told her to go away, after that.

She wasn’t as good as a real mommy, anyway.

-

It’s morning. It smells wet, because of the rain, and Sam takes a big huge breath when they step outside.

Dad’s holding two bags over his shoulder and Sam and Dean are carrying their backpacks. They’re walking to the car. It has rain drops all over it. The windows are foggy and Sam draws a circle on one while Dad stuffs the bags in the trunk and then goes around to unlock the car.

“Don’t do that Sammy,” Dean says, pulling Sam’s hand away from the window. Sam’s circle starts to cry, drops sliding down from it, to where the window meets the door. Sam leans closer, on his tiptoes, tries to see where the tears are going.

“C’mon boys,” Daddy says, and Dean pulls the backdoor open and gives Sam a push.

“Don’t,” Sam says, climbing in. Dean pushes Sam again.

“Dad!” says Sam.

“Dean,” comes Dad’s voice from the front.

Dean sighs as he slides into the car, mutters, “Twerp.”

That’s a new word Dean learned from Jackie, who was in the room next door at the motel. She’d messed up Sam’s hair when they first met and said, ‘Hey there, twerp,” and now Dean thinks it’s his word to use.

The car doors slam shut; the engine rumbles.

They’re moving again today.

Sam gets on his knees and turns around to watch the motel get farther and farther away in the back window, until Dean tugs at his pants and tells him to sit down.

-

“Echo, Minnesota,” Dad says.

“Echo, Minnesota,” Dean says, peering out the window. 

“Echo, Minnesota!” Sam calls, trying to get a look out the window too, crawling all over Dean’s lap.

“Shut up, Sam,” says Dean, scowling at him. “And get off.” His hair’s standing up because he just woke up. He had a headache before; Dad made him take a nap. Sam scrambles to the other end of the seat and looks out that window instead.

There’s snow everywhere.

It’s only October. Minnesota is weird.

-

“We have a _house_?” Sam says, in awe.

“We have a house,” Dad agrees. He’s opening up the boot and pulling out their duffle bags. The car is ticking.

It’s a nice house. White with a green roof. There are big clumps of snow on top of it, but Sam can still tell it’s green. There’s a tree too, naked and bony. There are other houses on either side, which means they have neighbors.

They walk up to the door. There’s a sign next to it.

“What’s that say?” Sam asks.

“The Bakers,” Dean reads. “316 Newman Road.”

Dad says, “You’ll be starting school next year. Thought it’d be a good idea to stick to one place, for that. For awhile. This family’s going to be away for a couple of years; they let us rent the place out.”

“I’m already in school,” Sam says. 

“You’re in _preschool_ , doofus.” Dean flicks Sam on the ear. “Dad means _real_ school.”

“Dean, don’t call your brother a doofus,” Dad warns.

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam says. He pushes Dean’s hand away when it comes up to flick his ear again.

-

The house has a kitchen and a living room and two bedrooms: one for Dad and one for Sam and Dean.

There’s already furniture inside it – a sofa and a TV and beds. There are curtains on the windows – they’re thin and a little scratchy and see-through blue. Dean takes one look at them, mutters, “Girly,” and moves away. 

Sam thinks they’re sort of nice, but he looks at them, sing-songs, “ _Gir_ -ly,” and follows Dean.

-

It’s cold at night, even with the blankets over their heads.

Dean’s shivering; Sam can feel it through the mattress. He rolls over, onto Dean, to make him stop.

“Jeez, you dork,” Dean hisses, trying to push him off, but Sam just grabs on. He tangles his legs with Dean’s and Dean huffs.

“You’re such a freak,” he mutters. 

“Meanie,” Sam whispers. 

“Freak, freak, Sammy-freak.” 

Sam’s throat goes tight. He thinks about crying, but decides to poke a finger in Dean’s side instead. 

Dean jerks, wriggles. Tries to heave Sam off.

Sam curls a hand in Dean’s t-shirt and pokes again and again. Dean takes a huge breath between laughs and says, “Stop or I’ll tell Dad!” so Sam stops, goes limp and heavy on Dean’s chest.

“I got a loser for a brother,” Dean whispers in Sam’s ear.

“Me too,” Sam says.

Dean doesn’t try to push Sam off after that. He stops shivering after a while too.

Sam falls asleep with his head on Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s arms all around him, like an octopus’s.

-

He dreams of monsters and fire.

When he wakes up, he’s crying, and the fire’s still there, underneath him. It sucks away his tears, burns them up.

He lifts his head off Dean’s chest. Dean’s shirt sticks to his ear a little; the cloth is wet. From crying, Sam thinks first, but Dean’s face is wet too, sweaty. 

Sam sits up. The blanket falls off. The air is cold. Sam shakes his brother.

“Dean?” he says. “Dean?”

Dean mumbles something, but doesn’t wake. Tugs at the neck of his tee like it’s too tight.

Sam runs to get Daddy.

-

Dad’s not in his room.

He’s not in any of the other rooms either.

“Dad?” he yells, padding through the house in bare feet, feeling the cold against the bottoms of his toes.

There’s no answer. He ends up standing in the middle of the living room, feeling tiny, like an ant. Feeling like anyone’s shoe could just come – out of nowhere. Crush him.

“Daddy?” he whispers, and there’s still nothing.

Sam’s heart starts going so fast it hurts.

-

This happened once before. He thinks, at least. He thinks it happened.

They left him. At Uncle Bobby’s. Daddy and Dean. Went away somewhere, together, and left him at Uncle Bobby’s.

Sam thought they’d left him forever, gone away without him.

He ran away, ran outside, to try and catch them, but it was so far, too far. 

He ran fast, faster than he ever had, like light-speed fast, but even that wasn’t enough. So he sat down against a car in Uncle Bobby’s yard and stared around. Uncle Bobby had a lot of cars. Sam didn’t know why someone needed all those cars. Maybe Uncle Bobby would give him one and then he could go – go and find Daddy and Dean.

He felt empty and scared and he thought maybe he’d feel like that forever and that made him even more scared, until he couldn’t even breathe. He tried to think of where he’d go if there was no one but him and then he couldn’t think at all.

He fell asleep and when he woke up, he heard Uncle Bobby yelling for him, sounding – sounding scary and mad. Sam stood up and Uncle Bobby was there, like magic, grabbing him, hauling him up and saying, “Christ, Jesus fucking Christ! Don’t you _ever_ do that again, boy, you hear me? _Don’t you ever do that again!_ ” He was so mad. It went on and on, the shouting and shaking, until Sam started crying and then Uncle Bobby hugged Sam to his chest and they went inside to have a cup of coffee.

Sam wasn’t allowed to drink coffee, but Uncle Bobby said as long as he didn’t tell Daddy it was okay.

Dad and Dean came back the next day.

“You dope,” Dean said later on, under the tent of blankets on the couch, which was also their bed. “You dopey dope. Why would we leave you? Why would we ever leave you?”

Sam shrugged. “I dunno.” He was mumbling like Dad always told him not to.

Dean sighed and said, “Look. I promise we’re not going to leave. We just went to… the doctor.” 

“Oh,” said Sam.

Then Dean said, “No one else would want you anyway,” and wiggled his fingers under Sam’s arms until Daddy’s voice came from above them somewhere and told them to settle down and go to sleep.

-

He twists the bottom of his shirt in his hands. Cold air hits his tummy.

He sucks on his lips. Maybe Dad’s outside? He runs to the window and peers out, but it’s white, white all over.

He sucks in a breath and yells, as loud as he can, “DAD!”

He yells it until all the air is gone out of him.

Dean comes tripping out of their room, into the hallway, feet thumping on the carpet. He’s got something in his hand. His hair’s standing up and his eyes are red where they’re supposed to be white. 

“What’s wrong with you, you idiot?!” he says, when he’s done looking all around the room with wide, wide eyes. He lets go of what he’s holding, drops it behind the couch, but Sam’s seen it already, knows what it is. A gun. Sam asked Dean why he had it once, and Dean said it was for protection. He’s not allowed to touch Dean’s gun though, only the BB gun Daddy gave him for his last birthday and only when Daddy is around to watch him.

“Dad’s gone,” Sam says.

Dean sighs then, loud. “Dad went to work last night. He told us, remember?”

Sam does remember, then. Also realizes suddenly, that he could have kept poking Dean last night, because Dad was already gone. He frowns, and then Dean says, “Oh.”

Sam looks up, just as Dean leans over, one hand on the couch and throws up all over the carpet.

-

Dean throws up again, right there, and Sam doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to get close.

But Dad will be angry if there’s a mess, so Sam moves. Goes and takes Dean’s hand. Dean tightens his fingers on the couch and groans, bends over a little again. He’s white, really white.

Sam tugs. “Dean. We have to go to the bathroom.”

This time, when he pulls on Dean’s hand, Dean stumbles forward, and Sam hurries as fast as he can to the bathroom.

He lifts up the toilet lid. Dean falls to his knees, grabs the edges of the toilet bowl. Shakes and throws up some more. Shakes and shakes. His arms are rattling like they’re loose and might fall out. Sam puts his hand on one of them, to make sure it doesn’t. There are little bumps all up and down the skin there, and on the back of Dean’s neck too, and he’s still sweating.

Dean gasps. Makes a choking sound once more and then gasps again. Rests his head on one of his hands.

“Dean?” Sam says.

“Need some water,” Dean mumbles, so Sam goes to the sink. It’s almost too tall, but he pushes himself up as far as he can go on his toes, manages to turn the tap and fill a glass. He almost drops it as he’s handing it over to Dean. Almost, but doesn’t.

“I didn’t drop it,” he says. Dean sucks at the glass and doesn’t reply to that. Swills some water in his mouth and spits.

“Are you done puking?” Sam asks.

Dean thinks about it. “Yes,” he says. He stands up, shakily, and fills the glass at the sink again. 

“What do we do now?” says Sam.

Dean just sets the glass back down with a _clunk_ and walks out of the bathroom.

Sam follows him.

-

Dean falls back into bed, under the blankets. Rolls up into a ball.

Sam climbs up and sits next to the Dean-mountain. Watches it move up and down, up and down.

There’s a chair sitting next to the window. Dean’s jacket is hanging off of it. Sam jumps off the bed, gets the jacket and drapes it over the Dean-mountain.

Crawls under the blankets himself to make a Sam-mountain, because even mountains need brothers.

-

“Are you sick?” Sam whispers.

“Mmm,” Dean murmurs, but it doesn’t sound like a “yes” _mmm_.

Sam stays quiet after that. Puts a hand in front of his mouth and feels his breath. It’s hot. The air under the blanket is all hot. Sam’s pajama-bottoms are sticking to the backs of his knees, where his legs are bent. He looks at Dean, Dean’s closed eyes.

Dean was sick before too. Before they moved here. He skipped two days of school.

Sam doesn’t know what you do when people are sick. It scares him, like the monsters in his dreams.

-

Sam’s growling stomach wakes him up. He pokes his head out of the nest of blankets. The room’s brighter than it was before, sun streaming right through the window. He pulls his head back in.

“Dean?”

He nudges Dean’s side with his knee. “Dean? Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean—” More nudging.

“Uh,” says Dean. His eyes peel open slowly and he glares at Sam. “Fuck,” he says.

Sam feels his eyes pop. “You said the f-word! Dad’s gonna be _maaaaad_.”

That seems to wake Dean up more. “Is Dad back?”

“No.”

“Then it doesn’t matter,” Dean replies, closing his eyes again. “Fuck.”

“You said it again!” Sam shrieks. Then he goes quiet. Forgets his hungry tummy. Dean looks... tired. Really tired. 

“Do you need medicine?” Sam asks.

Eyes open again. “Maybe.”

Sam twists the bed sheet between his fingers, waiting for something more. Rolls onto his back and watches Dean. “Should I get it?”

Dean’s lips twitch, like he’s thinking about it. His forehead wrinkles a little. Sam pokes at it, and Dean bats his finger away. “Stop that. Okay. Go get the first aid kit.”

“Okay,” says Sam, and throws the blanket off, jumps off the bed and lands with a thump. He runs to Dad’s room. Run’s back to his room.

“Dean?”

The Dean-mountain grunts.

“What’s it look like?”

“Red cross. Red – like an X. White box, red X, okay?”

Sam runs back to Dad’s room. There’s a bag sitting there and he plops down next to it, unzips it. Digs around for a moment. There’s a gun in there; Sam makes sure not to even put a _finger_ on it. Dad said that he’d _know_ if Sam did and Sam would be in Big Trouble – which Dean said meant Dad would cut all his fingers off. Sam likes his fingers, so he stays away from the gun.

He sees the white box with the red cross on it. Spots the small green pack where Dad keeps his compass. Dad never said Sam couldn’t touch his _compass_. It’s a really cool compass too. He reaches for the bag—

“SAM!”

Oh, right. Sam grabs the first aid kit and hurries back to Dean.

“Here,” he says, climbing back on the bed, and Dean rises from inside the blankets like a wave. He pulls the box towards him, flips it open and rifles around in it. Sam scoots forward. Scoots forward some more, until his knees are pressed against Dean’s thigh.

“Can I look?” he asks.

“No,” Dean says. He pulls out a red box with big yellow letters on it. Pulls out a folded up piece of paper from it. The paper crinkles as it unwraps. Dean squints, starts to read, in his heart like a grown-up.

Quiet. Quiet, quiet, quiet.

“What does it say?” Sam whispers.

“Shh,” Dean snaps. His eyes are all red. They look heavy too, like it’s hard to keep them open.

Sam chews on his cheeks and then slowly reaches for a box in the kit, keeping an eye on Dean. Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t stop him, so he pulls the box out, unfolds a similar piece of paper. Narrows his eyes at the letters.

After awhile, Dean sighs and sets his paper down. Glances at Sam. Sam can see it, out of the corner of his eye. He stares harder at his paper.

“What does yours say?” Dean asks conversationally.

Sam brings a finger up to the page, scrunches up his nose. “Sam. Winchester. Is. The. Bestest.”

Dean snorts. “Does not!”

“Yeah, yeah, it does!” Sam says, standing up on the mattress, bouncing out of Dean’s reach when he tries to swipe the paper away. “See?” He waves the page in Dean’s face. “Sam Winchester is the most bestest amazing brother _EVER_. That’s what it says!”

“Does not!”

“Does too!”

“Not!”

“Too!”

Dean grabs Sam around the waist, brings him tumbling down with a shriek and wrenches the paper out of his grasp. Smoothes it out on his pants’ leg and wrinkles his brow.

“Hmm,” he says.

Sam sits up, pushes his hair out of his eyes. “What?”

“Hmm,” Dean says again.

“What?” says Sam. “What? What?”

“Crap.”

“WHAT?”

“I’m sorry Sam. It – it—” Dean swallows hard. Sam brings his knees up to his chest. “It says – you’re a loser!”

“Liar!” Sam yells. “You’re a _liar_ , Dean.”

“No, no, it does,” Dean laughs, rolling away when Sam tries to pounce on him. “It says, Sammy Winchester is a loser and must obey his almighty brother Dean forever and ever!” 

He makes his voice deep like Dad’s when he says ‘almighty brother Dean’.

“It doesn’t!”

“I swear!” Dean says, wide-eyed. Shrugs. “Says you’re a loser. It’s official now. Sorry.”

Sam stares at Dean. Feels his lips wobble. His eyes start pinching. His skin is too small, suddenly. “I – I’m gonna tell Dad.”

“Dad’s not here, Sammy,” Dean says, going back to his reading.

“I – when he gets back – I—” 

Dean looks up then, and his face changes.

“I was just _kidding_ , jeez! Look, wait—” He tugs Sam down and Sam goes toppling to his rear. The mattress springs squeak. “I’ll make it better,” says Dean. “I can make it _un_ -official, okay, ‘cause I’m the Almighty Dean.”

“Okay,” Sam says warily. His throat is still aching.

Dean roots around in the first aid kit. Brings out the thermometer and says, “This is the Almighty Dean’s scepter. It’s like magic.”

He touches it to both Sam’s shoulders and says, “Sammy Winchester is no longer a loser.”

“Ever?”

Dean sighs. “Ever.”

Sam thinks about that for a minute, then nods. “Okay. I want a kiss too. To make it _all_ better.”

“You want a—” Dean looks revolted. “C’mon Sam—”

Sam sucks in a breath, screeches Dean’s name, long and drawn out and sounding like an ambulance siren.

“FINE.” Dean leans in, presses his lips to Sam’s cheek. Leans back again. “Happy, dork?”

Sam hums. Then says, “Your lips are hot.” He reaches forward, claps his palms against Dean’s cheeks. “Your face is hot too.”

“Leggo of me, you leech,” Dean mutters, pulling out of Sam’s grasp and looking at his paper again. “I’m sick.”

“I know.” He does. He asked Dean before. He’s the one who figured it out. “Like _911_ sick?” he asks, anyway, just to make sure.

“ _No_ , like cough-cough, I’m sick, sick.”

“Can I make it better?”

“How’re you gonna—?” Dean looks up and his eyes turn into saucers. Sam throws his arms around Dean’s neck and plants a big, wet, smacking kiss on his cheek.

“Aw, gross!” Dean shouts, scrubbing at his cheek with the hem of his shirt.

“You did it to me!” Sam says hotly, folding his arms over his chest.

“That’s _different. I_ don’t have _cooties_.”

“I don’t have cooties!”

“Yes, you do. Big, fat, honking cooties. Now _shut up_ and let me read.”

Sam shuts up. Thinks sullenly that he so does _not_ have cooties because there’s no such thing. Bounces up and down a little on his butt to make the mattress squeak. 

Does it harder when Dean doesn’t look up.

Dean yawns, big. Rubs his face with the back of a hand and says, “Go see if there’s a weighing machine in the bathroom.” He flops down backwards on the bed and closes his eyes.

“No.”

Dean blinks. “Sam. Go.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Go. Get. The. Weighing. Machine.”

“No.”

Dean throws his hands in the air. Lets them fall back down quickly. “Fine, I’ll go, you twerp.”

“Fine,” Sam says.

“FINE,” Dean replies, and gets off the bed slowly. Walks to the door slowly. Sam sits on the bed, waits for him to come back. His stomach growls again, louder.

He jumps off the bed to go after Dean.

-

Dean’s in the bathroom, standing on the weighing machine.

Sam wants to too. He can wait though. He stay in the doorway and watches as Dean stares at the little needle.

“Does it say you’re fat?” he whispers after a moment. It echoes all around the white, white bathroom.

“Yes,” Dean says. He doesn’t look at Sam. “It says I’m fat. It says I’m so fat, I’m going to explode.” There’s a thin line between his eyebrows. He sounds mad.

“Are you mad?” Sam asks quietly.

“No,” Dean says shortly. Still doesn’t look up. He gets off the weighing machine and walks out past Sam.

-

Dean’s facedown on the bed when Sam gets back from jumping up and down on the weighing machine. The needle was swinging back and forth. It was really cool. But then Sam fell and it hurt so he stopped.

Sam gets on the bed. “Did you take the medicine?”

“No,” Dean says, voice hard. “Now leave me alone.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so!”

“I don’t have to do what you say!”

“You do, because you’re just a dumb kid. It’s the rules.”

Oh. Right. It is the rules. But not because Sam’s dumb or a kid. It’s just ‘cause Dad said so.

“Where did Daddy go?” Sam asks.

“ _Work_. How many times are you gonna ask, jeez?”

“Where does he work?”

“Traveling salesman,” Dean mumbles. His face is pressed into the pillow now and it’s hard to hear. “He doesn’t work anywhere, now shut up.”

“What’s a traveling salesman do?”

Dean groans. Then says, “He finds people who want to buy kids no one wants anymore because they’re so _dumb_.”

A bird twitters outside. “Like me?” Sam asks quietly.

“ _Yes_. Now will you _shut – up_?”

“You’re just saying that to be mean!”

“Whatever Sam, just shut up, you’re hurting my head!”

“I’ll tell Dad on you,” Sam threatens.

“Fine. If he ever comes back. Maybe he decided he just doesn’t like your stupid face anymore.”

“Stop it!”

Dean sits up, glares at Sam. “Then _leave – me – alone_!” he yells.

“NO!” Sam shouts. “I’m hungry and I’m gonna tell Dad you were being mean and not taking care of me!”

Dean’s nose is flaring and his chest heaves up and down and he looks down at his hand. Red, red face; white, white fingertips. He takes a breath in through his mouth. It’s shaky. His jaw clenches tight. Something falls from his eyes and Sam watches it, stares at the small, damp spot on the white-gray sheets and feels cold all over.

It happens again. And again. Dean doesn’t look up once, and Sam doesn’t—

He doesn’t—

“Fine,” Dean says. “Fine.” He gets up, grabbing Sam’s hand and dragging him off the bed. Sam stumbles, trips on the carpet, but Dean keeps pulling.

It hurts.

“Dean—” says Sam, but Dean tugs him out of their room, through the hallway and the living room, into the kitchen. He yanks a chair out from the table and pushes Sam on it, and Sam just goes with it, goes where he’s pulled and thrown, too scared to do anything else.

Dean’s face is wet and hard, and he’s making small noises that Sam’s never heard him make before. He pulls open the fridge. Slams a jar of jelly onto the shelf, opens and closes cupboards until he finds peanut butter. Wipes the back of his hand over his eyes. Spoons and knives clink together as he drags a drawer open. The bread box slides open – slides closed – _clunk, clunk_.

Dean sniffs hard and slathers jelly and peanut butter on two pieces of bread. Slaps them together and sets them on a plate. The plate lands in front of Sam on the table.

“Are you happy _now_?” Dean snarls, loudly.

And then he’s gone, running.

A door slams.

There’s a scream. Just one long scream. And then cries. Loud, loud cries, louder than even Sam makes now.

Sam’s heart closes up like a fist, pushes up his throat. He stares at his sandwich but doesn’t eat.

-

Sam stands outside the bedroom door. He stands there forever. Ages and ages. Years.

He stands there but doesn’t go in.

-

He walks around the house until his feet get cold.

There’s something almost-dried on the carpet.

Oh, right. Dean threw up.

There’s a closet in the hall. It has towels. Sam takes one out, spreads it out over the stain.

Looks at it approvingly. Job well done, sir.

He curls up on the couch. He turns the TV on, finds cartoons, but it feels too loud, so he switches it off again. Peers out the window, then; it’s white outside, white on the ground and white in the air and the sky’s hidden. Sam puts his hand up to the glass and leaves a print. Writes his name underneath it with shaky fingers. Pretends he sees Daddy coming home through the cleared glass, pretends that he runs to the door and jumps into Daddy’s arms when he walks in and holds on tight. Pretends to tell him Dean’s sad and pretends that Dad makes it all better.

Just like that.

There’s a carpet on the carpet in the living room. Sam stands in the middle of it, digs his toes into the threads. Spins around, once – twice. Says, quietly, “Dean, come spin with me.” Too quietly. Dean will never hear. Dean will never stop crying. Dean will never be okay.

Sam doesn’t know how to make it better.

-

Mommy comes.

She’s standing there when Sam turns around, red hair and green eyes.

Sam knows she’s not real. He does, he really does. But it would be nice if she was.

“You should talk to Dean,” Sam says.

She doesn’t say anything. Not even “fascinating”.

“He’s really sad.”

She watches him. Smiles a little.

“What should I do?” Sam asks.

When she doesn’t say anything again, Sam wants to hit her. Wants to hit her hard.

“You’re not my mom, so go away!” he spits, instead.

He turns around and when he looks over his shoulder again, she’s not there.

 _She’s not THERE_.

He yells into the air. No words first, and then:

“You weren’t supposed to go away!” Again. “YOU WEREN”T SUPPOSED TO GO AWAY!” 

He hates her. She’s not a real mom; real moms don’t go away.

The clock ticks. A car horn beeps outside.

It’s getting dark. He goes around and turns all the lights on.

-

This happened once: Dean took Sam’s arm and twisted, twisted, _twisted_ , until Sam’s skin was red, until he was crying.

This happened too: Dad wasn’t home. Sam kept crying. Dean kissed his arm, over and over, until it wasn’t red anymore. Not one bit.

-

It’s quiet inside the room.

Dark too. Sam’s chest hurts. He doesn’t want to go inside.

He pushes the door open wider, until light spills all over the carpet. Walks to the nightstand and puts the plate with the sandwich Dean made down on it.

He brings his hand up to his mouth. “Dean?” he whispers.

The blanket on the bed moves. Sam almost runs out of the room, but then Dean’s voice comes. “What?” he says.

“Are you better?” He climbs onto the bed. Pulls the covers away from Dean’s face. There are rivers on Dean’s cheeks; Sam can see them glistening orange in the light from the living room. He thinks about kissing them. Kissing them all until they’re not wet anymore. Not one bit.

“I don’t feel good,” mumbles Dean.

“Okay,” says Sam. “Should I – should I call Dad?”

“Is Dad here?”

“No.”

“We can’t call Dad. We don’t have a number.”

“Should I call 911?” He’s already getting off the bed.

“ _No_ ,” Dean says vehemently. “Not 911.”

“Why not?”

“They’ll take us away. They’ll take us away from Dad.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. They just will.”

Sam swallows. Sits back down. Closer, this time, close as he can get to Dean. “What do I do then?”

Dean closes his eyes. “Dunno.”

He shuffles around in the blanket. Shadows dance on the wall. Sam watches them. Curls his fingers around the blanket.

“I don’t want you to go away,” he says.

Dean’s eyes open again. “What?”

“I don’t want you to go away,” Sam repeats. The blanket is scratchy under his fingers, but warm too. “Mommy went away.”

Dean looks away. “I’m not going away.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

“Did Mommy know?”

Dean’s mouth opens, but no words come out. Then he says, “No.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I don’t,” says Dean. His voice is very quiet. Tiny. Like an ant. His lips wobble. More rivers on his face.

This time, Sam does kiss them. Kisses them a hundred times. A thousand. A million.

“Ugh,” says Dean, trying to push Sam away, hands on Sam’s face. “You’re like a dog.”

“Dogs are nice,” Sam says. He stops kissing to do it, though. “Like Rumsfeld.” He has to say it carefully, so that his tongue doesn’t trip.

“ _Slobbery_ dogs aren’t nice.”

“Hey,” says Sam then. He has an idea. He thinks it’s a good idea.

“What?” says Dean.

“We can call Uncle Bobby. Does Uncle Bobby have a number?”

“Yeah—”

“Yeah!” says Sam. Bounces in place, like a pogo stick. “Yeah! We could call Uncle Bobby! Maybe he could bring Rumsfeld! Maybe he could make you better!”

Then, he has an even better idea. “Or we could call Pastor Jim! Huh, Dean, could we? We could call Uncle Bobby _and_ Pastor Jim!” He stands up on the bed, jumps up and down – but carefully, so he doesn’t jump on Dean. “It could be like a party! Could we?”

Dean doesn’t say anything and Sam stops jumping. Thinks maybe it’s not a good idea.

But then Dean smiles. Smiles big, right at Sam, and Sam knows.

It’s a good idea.

-

The phone rings sixteen times.

Sam counts.

There’s a click. Lots of grumbling, growling, like Rumsfeld picked up the phone instead of Uncle Bobby. Or maybe a monster.

“Hello?” says Sam.

The grumbling stops. “Who is this?”

That’s Uncle Bobby’s voice.

“Sam,” Sam says.

There’s silence. Sam thinks maybe Uncle Bobby forgot what to say. It happens sometimes. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.

“You’re supposed to say ‘hi’,” Sam whispers.

“’Course,” says Uncle Bobby then. “’Course, right. Hi Sam. How you doin’?”

“I’m good.”

“Good, good. And Dean?”

“Dean’s sick.”

“Sick? Like how sick?”

“Bad sick. He said he doesn’t feel good. I asked if I should call 911, but he said no, because people would take us away.”

“Did he tell you to call me, Sam?”

“It was my idea,” Sam says. “But he said it was a good idea.”

“It was a good idea,” Bobby reassures. “Where’s your daddy Sam?”

“He’s at work. He’s a traveling salesman.”

“Uh… okay. When did he go to work?”

“Um. Last night. I was asleep.”

“Right, right, right.” 

There are more sounds, rustling and jingling, and Uncle Bobby’s saying stuff Sam can’t hear, under his breath.

“Okay, Sam, I need you to tell me where you are. Can you do that?”

“We’re in, uh. Echo, Minnesota.”

“Echo, Minnesota. Are you staying in a motel?”

“No, a house. Dad said it was good to have a house. ‘Cause I’m going to school soon. Real school.”

“Do you have the address, Sam?” asks Uncle Bobby.

Sam doesn’t. “I’ll go ask Dean, okay?” he says. Dean will know; Dean knows everything. “Wait here.”

“Okay, I’m waiting,” Uncle Bobby says, so Sam sets the phone down, on the table, and hurries back to Dean’s room. “Hey, Dean. Dean, what’s the address?”

He jumps on the bed, like a cat. Pounces. Dean doesn’t move.

“Hey, Dean? Dean?” says Sam. He pulls the covers away. Shakes Dean. Dean’s eyes are closed. Sam shakes him harder, hands on Dean’s chest.

He sits back a little, when it doesn’t work. Dean’s chest moves under his hands. It’s warm. “Are you awake?” says Sam. Quietly. Quieter. “Wake up.”

Dean doesn’t listen. Dean never listens to Sam, anyway. He doesn’t have to. But it would be nice, if he did, at least this time.

Sam runs back to the phone.

“Uncle Bobby?”

“Sammy?”

“Dean won’t wake up.”

“Shit,” says Bobby. “Shit, shit, fucking _shit_. Jesus _Christ_.” He’s huffing and puffing.

“That’s a bad word,” Sam says.

“Yes it is,” Uncle Bobby agrees. Just like that. Like it doesn’t matter. 

“It can be our secret,” Sam assures.

“That’s a good idea, Sam. Listen kiddo. I need to know where you are. Did you see any signs when you were driving up? Anything you remember?”

Sam does remember. “There’s a sign. Next to the door.”

“Good, that’s good. Do you remember what it says?”

“The Bakers,” Sam says promptly. “And some numbers. And more words.”

“Is your porch light on?”

“Yes. I turned it on when it got dark.”

“Do you think you could go outside, very carefully, and check what that sign says?”

“I don’t – I can’t read.”

“Just go check the numbers for me, then, okay? Be very careful. And hurry. Make sure to lock the door when you’re done.”

Sam goes.

-

It’s cold outside. Really cold. It sucks away Sam’s breath, takes it right out of him. His feet are bare.

The sign is right under the light. Sam checks the numbers. Checks some letters on the words he doesn’t know, too and then goes back inside. 

The wind whistles. The lock clicks.

-

“316,” Sam says. He’s still cold. His teeth click together. “Um, and. N – E – W – M – A – N.”

“316,” Bobby repeats. “Newman. Echo, Minnesota. Okay, okay, that’s real good Sam. You’re a smart kid. I’m coming, all right? I’ll be there in um – I’ll be there in three hours. Right now it’s nine o’clock, so that means, I’ll be there at twelve o’clock, okay? Is there a clock in the house?”

Sam looks around. There is. Above the TV.

“I’ll be there when both hands are on the twelve, okay Sam? You just keep an eye on that clock. I’ll be there before you know.”

“Okay,” says Sam. “I got that.” He remembers something. “Should I call Pastor Jim? That was my other idea.”

“I’ll do that. I’ll call Jim. You just watch the clock. And sit with Dean. See if he’ll wake up. Give him water.”

“Right,” says Sam. Feels grown-up.

“Is he hot? Do you know?”

“Yeah, he’s hot. I could feel it.”

Uncle Bobby sighs, loudly. It’s like a storm in the phone. A tornado. _Whooooosh_. In his head, it takes the house away. All the trees too, just flying in the sky. Bobby’s voice breaks into his thoughts. “Sam, I’m going to hang up now. I’ll be there soon. Take care of your brother.”

“I can do that. Bye Uncle Bobby.”

The phone clicks. Sam hangs up.

-

There’s a bottle of water in the fridge. Sam spots a cup.

A police car siren, outside. Far away. Sam makes the sound with it. 

Water spills, sloshes over the edge of the cup. Sam stops pouring.

The cup’s too full, so he stands on his tiptoes, puts his lips to the edge. Slurps up some water. Slurps some more. It’s good, really good. The cup’s empty enough to lift, so he does. Drinks some more.

This time when he pours the water, he stops in time and nothing spills.

He takes it to Dean’s room. Watches it the whole way, to make sure not a drop falls out.

-

Dean wakes up a little. Drinks some water. Spills some too, on his shirt.

Says, “Daddy?”

Says it again, even when Sam says, “No, it’s Sam.”

“Head hurts,” says Dean. “Daddy?”

Sam remembers something. He forgot to ask Bobby to bring Rumsfeld.

-

He dreams.

He’s made of straw. 

He’s made of sticks, he’s made of bricks.

Nothing breaks him. Nothing blows him down.

-

The door’s rattling. It wakes Sam up. He’s on the couch, because Dean kept kicking him in the bed.

He sits up. The door rattles some more. There are voices on the other side. Then knocking. Sam gets off the couch. Tries to hide behind it.

“Sam?” the voices say.

They _know his name_. His heart almost comes out of his chest. For real.

“Sam? It’s Bobby and Pastor Jim. Can you open the door?” More knocking.

Sam looks at the clock then. Both hands aren’t on the twelve yet. Almost, though.

He goes to the door. “Uncle Bobby?”

“Yeah, kiddo. Could you open the door?”

Sam tries. It takes a while. His fingers are tired; they didn’t want to wake up yet.

-

“Okay, Sam, you need to let go now,” says Bobby.

Sam doesn’t want to let go though. He holds on tighter. Breathes in deep. Loves the smell of Uncle Bobby, loves that he came. Loves him, loves him, loves him.

“Right then,” says Bobby, and then Sam’s moving up. Bear hug. Big bear hug.

“I think Pastor Jim wants a hug too,” Bobby says and hands Sam off.

Sam leans back a little. Looks at Pastor Jim’s face. He does look like he wants a hug.

Sam holds on tight. Pastor Jim does too. Sam thinks maybe Pastor Jim is a little scared as well. That’s okay though. It’s not bad to be scared. 

Sam puts his head on Pastor Jim’s shoulder. He smells like the cold and coffee beans. They’re walking now, to the bedroom.

“Dean?” says Uncle Bobby. Sam lifts his head. Bobby’s sitting on the bed. He pulls the blanket away from Dean. Runs a hand over his face. Through his hair.

“Kiddo?”

“Fever?” asks Jim.

“Yeah, shit. Hot as hell. Christ.” Bobby takes his cap off. Sam stares. He looks funny without it.

Bobby looks up at Sam. “Did he take any medicine, Sam?”

“No. I don’t think.”

Bobby’s eyes move to Pastor Jim’s. “Kid looks dead on his feet,” he says. “Let’s get him to bed.”

“I’ll do that,” says Jim. Nods his head. “The first aid kit’s there. Did John say when he’d be back?”

“Not to me,” says Bobby, reaching for the white-red box. “Fuck.”

“Ready for bed, Sammy?” Pastor Jim asks.

Sam nods. His head’s back on Jim’s shoulder. It’s warm there. He closes his eyes, lets the rocking movement of walking wrap him up.

He wakes up a little later. He’s in Daddy’s bed. There are voices in the living room, and light. Warm voices, low voices.

He goes back to sleep.

-

“JIM!”

Sam shoots up in bed. Uncle Bobby’s yelling, deep and loud. Footsteps, thumping around. Pastor Jim runs past Sam’s door and Sam pulls the blankets over his head. He can hear his own breathing.

More footsteps. The door slams closed.

Sam swallows. Heart goes _THUMP-THUMP_.

Door opens. “Bobby!” Pastor Jim calls. Then, quieter, “Car’s started, get him in. I’ll get Sam.”

_THUMP-THUMP._

The blankets are yanked out of his hands. It’s Jim.

“Sammy,” he says. He’s huffing, out of breath. Wide-eyed. Red-faced. Looks scared. “We’ve gotta go, Sammy.” He grabs Sam under the arms, lifts.

“Where?” asks Sam. His voice shakes. Eyes pinch.

 _THUMP-THUMP_.

“Dean’s really sick, we’re going to the hospital.”

Sam wants to say he’s still in his PJs. Wants to say he doesn’t have shoes.

Wants to cry.

But Jim’s running out the door then, and Sam’s in the car, and everything’s happening too fast. All Sam can do is watch and breathe.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s in the backseat, with Dean. It’s Bobby’s truck. The seat shakes under his butt.

Dean’s lying down. His head is on Sam’s lap. Sam puts a hand on Dean’s cheek. It’s hot. 

Dean’s lips are parted. He’s breathing hard, through his mouth, like he’s been running.

And then—

And then—

“Uncle Bobby!” The car screeches, stops.

Dean’s shaking. Dean’s twitching and shaking, hard, and his eyes are still closed. Something’s coming out of his mouth, like he’s throwing up. It’s colorless.

Jim leaps, grabs Dean and turns him, so he’s on his side. Vomit runs down Sam’s legs, and he doesn’t care. There’s a wet spot on Dean’s pants, growing bigger.

“Bobby, go!” Jim’s hand on Dean’s forehead. “Hold on, hold on,” he whispers, over and over. He looks up at Sam, strokes his big hand through Sam’s hair, then faces the front again. “Faster,” he says.

Sam wishes he didn’t. Wishes he’d sit back here and hold him and make Dean better. But he doesn’t, and Dean’s still shaking, and there’s only one person here – Sam.

So he does what he has to do. He holds Dean close. Hugs him. Wishes him better. He has to be brave. That’s what you do.

Uncle Bobby says, “C’mon, fuck, _c’mon_.”

Pastor Jim says, “ _Pater noster, qui es in caelis: sanctificetur Nomen Tuum_ …”

Sam says, “It’s okay, Dean, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

-

The truck is stuck. It’s a traffic jam. Sam doesn’t know the time.

Bobby presses the horn, hard. 

Dean’s not shaking anymore. Jim gave him some water, a little while ago, poured it slowly into his mouth, even though he wasn’t awake.

Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim are yelling at each other now.

Sam starts to cry. He can’t help it. He does it quietly though, so no one can hear, and rubs the tears off Dean’s cheek when they fall there.

-

They take Dean away at the hospital. There’s a lot of shouting, lots of words Sam doesn’t know.

Jim takes papers to fill and sign.

Sam sits on Uncle Bobby’s lap. Bobby holds him close, rests his chin on the top of Sam’s head and says, “He’ll be fine, wait and see. He’ll be okay.”

-

Jim takes Sam to the bathroom to clean up. Sam washes his legs and hands. Uses the toilet. Washes his hands again.

He stares at himself in the mirror, drying up with brown paper.

Dean’s right, he thinks. He does look like a kid. Like a baby. A dumb one.

-

They wait.

There are pictures on the walls.

Turtles and giraffes and trees that look like flowers. Monkeys hanging from branches and hippos smiling big.

Pastor Jim asks him if he knows their names, and Sam tells him every one.

-

A doctor walks over to their circle of seats while Sam’s flipping through a magazine. Pastor Jim read the title for him. It says _Highlights for Children_.

The doctor huddles with Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim. They talk in hushed voices, wrinkles on their foreheads.

A lady comes over to Sam, kneels down next to him.

“Hi there,” she says, and smiles. She has red hair. She doesn’t seem to care that he’s in his PJs and doesn’t have shoes and didn’t brush his teeth.

“Hi,” says Sam.

“I’m Amelia. What’s your name?”

“Sam.”

“Well, Sam,” she says, and brings a muffin out from behind her back. “Have you had any breakfast?”

Sam shakes his head. Looks from the muffin to Amelia and then back. She gives it a little shake, so Sam takes it. It’s a big muffin, bigger than Sam’s ever seen. There are chocolate chips on top. Sam loves chocolate chips.

“I love chocolate chips,” he says to Amelia and she laughs. 

“Oh, me too.”

Sam takes a bite of the muffin. It melts in his mouth. He chews, swallows, and then says, “My brother’s here.”

“Yeah? Is he sick?”

Sam nods.

Amelia leans closer, says, “Want to know a secret?”

Sam nods again.

“I bet your brother is going to be just fine. In fact, when he’s all better, you know what you’re gonna do?”

Sam shakes his head.

“You’re gonna bring him to meet me and I’m going to give him a muffin, just like yours. Does your brother like chocolate chips?”

“Yeah,” says Sam.

“Great!” She points over her shoulder. “See that desk? There’s a dolphin painted next to it?”

Sam sees it.

“Well, that’s where you’ll find me. Whenever your brother gets better.”

“I’ll bring him.”

Amelia grins. It’s nice. Warm. Sam smiles back.

He takes another bite of the muffin. Swings his legs back and forth, feels silky chocolate on his tongue.

-

Daddy comes.

He looks messed up. Like someone in a cartoon who got electrocuted. His hair’s standing up. His eyes are big and red. He’s running.

“Daddy!” Sam calls, waving. He stands up on his seat so Dad can see.

When Dad sees him, he grabs him and squeezes him until Sam can’t breathe.

-

The grown-ups talk _forever_. A doctor comes out to talk to Daddy too. His long white coat swishes around his legs.

Talk, talk, talk.

Sam asks if he can see Dean, but everyone says no.

-

They go home without Dean, that night.

Sam asks why and Dad says Dean has to stay for longer to get better.

Sam watches the hospital disappear from view from the backseat. Dean’s in there. Sam’s not.

 _THUMP-THUMP_ goes his heart.

-

The snow melts.

Jim and Bobby go home, and then come back with bags and clothes and things.

Sam hears them talking. They tell Dad they don’t have anywhere they’d rather be.

Someone cleans up the vomit behind the couch.

It snows again, melts again too.

Dean doesn’t come home.

Everyone’s sad.

-

Dad’s on the phone a lot.

He talks about stuff Sam doesn’t understand.

Says, “Encephalitis,” and “Freak thing – traveled up to his brain” and “doctor said he had a better chance of winning the lottery than getting this”.

There’s one word he keeps using. And Bobby and Pastor Jim too. 

It’s “coma”.

-

Daddy says, “Sam, I need to talk to you.”

It’s his Very Serious Voice. It means, you have to call him _sir_. He hasn’t shaved in a long time. There’s scruff. He really looks like a _sir_.

“Okay, sir,” says Sam.

“The doctors have been talking,” Dad says. He tugs Sam off the couch, pulls him forward until he’s standing between Dad’s legs. “They’re not – they’re not sure, okay? But they think, maybe—” Dad licks his lips. “—that Dean won’t get better.”

“What?” says Sam. Remembers. Adds, “Sir.”

“Sammy,” breathes Dad, and his eyes are wet.

The world goes tiny, suddenly.

“What happens if he doesn’t get better?” Sam asks quietly. Tiny voice.

“He doesn’t come back home,” says Dad. Tiny voice. Tiny face. Tiny man.

“Ever?”

“Ever.” 

“Like Mom?”

Rivers down Daddy’s face. “Yeah. Like Mom.”

“Can’t you – can’t you make it better?”

“No, Sammy, I can’t.”

“Why?” Sam asks. His voice wobbles. Teeters. Falls. He’s crying like a baby. Dean would make fun of him. He doesn’t want Dean to go away. Dean’s the best brother Sam’s ever had. Why would he forget?

Dad’s face breaks, like a glass. He pulls Sam close. “They’re not sure, okay? They’re not sure yet. But I need you to be ready, in case. I—”

They’re both crying like babies, then. Dean would kill himself laughing.

Why can’t Dean just stay with Sam? Sam would be a good enough brother for both of them. Why does he have to go? Doesn’t he _want_ to stay? Is that what Stan meant? Does forgetting mean he doesn’t _want_ to be Sam’s brother anymore?

“Where will he go?” Sam asks.

Dad thinks about that. Then says, “To Mom. She’ll take care of him.”

Sam climbs into his daddy’s lap then, climbs like a monkey and holds on. Dad kisses his hair and Sam kisses Dad’s beard, feels the roughness under his lips. He tries to say, _I’ll take care of you_ , in case Dad’s worried, because Sam will.

Dad rocks him back and forth, says, “Shh, shh,” but neither of them stop crying.

-

“This is my fault,” says Dad. His words slip together.

“John,” says Jim. “It’s not. No one could have known.”

Dad shakes his head. Covers his face with his hands. “It is. Fuck. I shouldn’t have left. I knew he was sick.”

“You didn’t think it was this bad. You thought it was a cold. It _was_ a cold, first.”

Dad shakes his head more.

Jim’s eyes narrow. “What happened to Dean – it wasn’t on you to stop it. But whatever happens now is. You’re here now. You need to pull yourself together John, you understand me? You need to—”

Dad lifts the mostly-empty bottle to his mouth and Jim snatches it, right from his lips.

“—give me _that_ , and stop.”

Dad looks up at Jim. His eyes are red, like blood.

“Look at yourself, John,” says Jim. “What’re you doing? Sam’s sitting two feet away watching this. Watching his father become this.”

Dad looks at Sam. Sam looks back. Twists his hands in his lap.

“Listen up. You are going to get off your ass, and take a shower. Then you’re going to make dinner, and eat with Sam. Then you’re going to get Sam to bed. Tomorrow morning? Shower. Go to the hospital. When you come back? You’re going to dig out every bottle of Jim Beam and Jack you’ve got sitting around in here – I don’t give a damn what it is, if it’s got alcohol in it, it’s gone. You’re gonna gather them all up and throw them out. You understand me?”

Dad’s still looking at Sam. But he nods.

“Good. So what’re you going to do now?”

“Get off my ass,” Dad says slowly. The words are stuck together, a little. “Take a shower.”

“Exactly. Get off your ass. Go,” says Jim firmly.

Dad does. Sam looks at Jim.

“You said ass, Pastor Jim,” he says.

“Yes, well,” says Jim. “Sometimes your dad needs a firm hand. Lord forgive me.”

He winks. Sam laughs.

-

They have dinner.

Dad watches Sam eat. 

Sam lets him.

-

It’s dark when Sam wakes up.

There’s a chair near his bed. Someone’s sitting there.

Dad.

“Is Dean gone?” Sam asks, quietly.

“No,” says Dad. “No, he’s not.”

-

Dad spends a lot of time at the hospital. Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim are staying at their house.

Bobby’s sitting at the dining table, reading a big book.

“How long has Dean been in the hospital?” Sam asks.

Bobby looks up. “Three weeks, now. Give or take a day.”

Sam nods. Picks up an apple from the basket on the table and bites into it.

“What’s coma mean?” Sam asks.

Bobby pushes his book away. “Well,” he says. “It means that Dean’s sleeping. A very deep sleep. ‘Cause his body’s very tired.”

“Oh,” says Sam. Then, “Will he wake up?”

The front door bursts open. Sam jumps in his seat. Bobby turns. Pastor Jim comes running out of his room, in socks and sweat pants and a ratty yellow shirt.

It’s Dad at the door. He’s shining, bright. Smiling like the best thing in the world just happened.

“Dean’s awake,” he announces. “He’s awake.” He lets out a breath, collapses on the couch.

Pastor Jim looks at the ceiling, lips moving fast. Bobby turns to Sam and smiles.

“Looks like he just did, tiger. Looks like he just did.”

-

Sam goes to the hospital with Dad, but they don’t let him see Dean still.

Sam asks why. Why, why, why? Why can’t I? Dad tells him he just can’t and the doctors said so and Dean might catch a bad bug from Sam, but still Sam asks why. He wants to see Dean. He’s been waiting. He wants to make sure Dean’s not disappearing.

He keeps asking, hopping around at Dad’s feet, and finally Dad says, sharply, “Sam, Jesus. That’s _enough_.” His eyes are hard. Sam sits down right away.

Dad says, “Sit here and behave yourself, okay? I don’t want you making a scene.” There are hard lines in his face. Angry lines.

Sam nods.

“I know you want to see Dean, but that’s just not possible right now.”

He goes to the front desk after that, and Sam sits and waits.

A nurse comes up to talk to him after a while. Dad’s talking to the doctor. The nurse keeps calling him “sweetie”. Sam looks around for Amelia, but she’s not behind her desk.

He asks Sweetie-Nurse, “Do you know where Amelia is?”

The nurse laughs, like he said something funny. Pinches his cheek. “I’m not sure, sweetie, but I can give it check.”

“Yes, please. Give it a check,” says Sam, and gets another laugh.

The nurse walks away, sort of _swinging_ , not just walking, and Dad comes to sit down, with a puff.

“What’re you pouting about Sammy?” Dad says, pulling Sam close. It means he’s not mad anymore.

“Nothing,” says Sam. He puts his head down on Dad’s lap, because he can. Because Dad’s not mad.

Sweetie-Nurse comes back. She says Amelia is with Dean right now, and that she can tell her that Sam was looking for her when she comes back. Sam says no thank you. He didn’t know Amelia was Dean’s nurse.

“That’s a good thing,” he informs Dad.

Dad smiles down at him. “I’m sure it is Sam,” he says, Serious Voice.

Sam wishes Sweetie-Nurse had been near to hear that.

-

The grown-ups are all in the living room, talking.

That’s all they do. Talk. Never shut up.

Sam gets mad. Wishes Dean was here. Wishes Dean didn’t have to get sick. Wishes Dean would get better.

He’s so angry, he does something bad. He pulls open their closet. Yanks down the clothes hanging there – mostly Dean’s. There are shirts and jeans and a jacket. Not a lot of them. But enough.

He herds them all together, one big pile of Dean-clothes. Burrows under them, inside the closet. Pokes an arm out from under the mound and tugs the door closed. It clicks, quietly.

There’s a little gap; Sam can see the light coming from under the door. It’s daytime, and all the lamps are all off in the room, curtains thrown wide. The light is blue, cold. Icy.

He keeps his eyes on it, smells clean clothes and Dean all around him. Pulls things closer. Pulls his knees up to his chest.

“You weirdo,” Dean would say, except Dean’s not here to say it. So it doesn’t matter.

Remember when Dean took Sam’s arm and twisted it? Twisted it red and burning?

That’s how Sam feels now, on the inside. Red and burning.

It hurts more.

-

Dad says since Sam hasn’t started preschool again, and Jim has nothing better to do than _invoke the Lord_ , he should teach Sam something.

“Keep you on your toes,” Dad says. He tickles Sam’s toes. They curl up, trying to get inside Sam’s foot.

There’s a lot of laughing. Bobby and Dad at Jim, mostly. And at things that aren’t even funny, like Miss Birdie next door. It’s really loud laughing. The room smells of smoke. Three hands, one big cigar.

First it was just Dad, then Bobby and finally, Pastor Jim too.

“Loosen up a bit, Jimbo,” said Dad and Pastor Jim squinted at him. At Bobby next.

“Thought I told you to dump the alcohol.”

“You did,” says Dad. “I did. Doesn’t mean I didn’t buy more.”

Dad and Bobby laughed at that. Laughed hard, like it was really funny, funniest thing in the world. Sam was sitting at the dining table, in the kitchen.

He’s still sitting there now, but Dad’s come over to put the cigar out and tickle Sam’s feet.

“Whaddya say, Jim?” Dad calls, and Jim sighs. A little extra smoke slips out through his lips.

Sam thinks it’s gross.

It’s a good day today. The doctor said Dean’s getting better.

-

Pastor Jim sits Sam down. Tries to teach him the days of the week.

He draws out a table. Makes Sam repeat after him.

Sam doesn’t tell him he already learned the days of the week ages ago.

-

It hits like a truck. Or like lightening. A steamroller. Sam saw one of those, once, when they lived in Iowa still.

“I thought he was getting better,” Sam says.

“He was,” says Dad. He looks tried again. He runs his hands through his hair. There’s not a lot of it but he doesn’t it anyway. “He is. There are just – complications.”

“Compli-cations?”

“Problems. Dean didn’t get a little sick, Sam. He got a lot sick. We knew – they told us that there would probably be problems. We just weren’t sure what they were then.”

“Now we’re sure.”

Dad nods. “Yes.”

“It’s okay, though, right? It doesn’t matter. Babies don’t talk either and everyone likes them still. My friend Rachel had a baby sister in preschool. Her mom used to bring her sometimes. She was fun.”

Dad breathes in. Breathes out. “You’re – you’re right Sam. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all.”

But he sounds like he’s making it up. He sounds like he’s telling a story.

-

Dean’s in his dreams.

“I miss you,” Sam says.

Dean doesn’t say anything. He’s playing with a car. He rolls it back and forth.

“You should come back. Dean?”

Dean doesn’t look up. Keeps rolling. Makes a sound, like a car engine, with his mouth.

“Why don’t you say anything?” asks Sam.

 _Brrm-brrm_ , says Dean. He doesn’t look up. Not even when Sam walks forward and hits him, hard. Not even when Sam yells. “Talk to me! Talk to me!”

He wakes up then. His lips are still moving, like he was really yelling. It’s dark all around. Thick dark. He’s scared for a moment, then feels Dad next to him on the mattress. Hears his snores. He forgot; today is Sunday. That means Dad sleeps with Sam and Uncle Bobby stays with Dean in the hospital.

“Dad?” Sam whispers.

He worms his way closer to Dad. Whispers again, “Dad?”

“DAD?” Still whispering.

He pokes him after a minute, and Dad jerks up, grabs Sam’s arm. It hurts.

“Wha—?” he says. Blinks. Looks down. “Sammy.” He lets go of Sam’s arm.

“Dad?”

“Hmm,” Dad says, flopping back down on his back, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“If Dean can’t talk… how will he tell us things?”

Dad uncovers his eyes, then. They shine at Sam in the dark. “There are ways to talk without speaking,” Dad whispers back to him. “And there’s always writing. Dean can write and we can read it. He can still do that.”

“Oh,” says Sam.

“We’re lucky, kiddo,” Dad says. He turns on his side, so he’s facing Sam. “Dean could be a lot worse off. But he’s not. The only difference is that he can’t talk. Not that he doesn’t _know_ how to talk – he does. But the part of his brain that helps him make sounds?” Sam nods. “That doesn’t work anymore. But he’s still our Dean, and we’re all very lucky. The doctors said it—”

There’s a pause, and Sam waits, but Dad doesn’t keep talking.

“Okay,” says Sam. “That’s good.”

“Yep,” says Dad, wobbly-voiced, and he takes Sam’s hand under the blanket, and Sam feels like he does when he and Dean share a secret. Like there’s something special and warm inside him that no one else knows about.

-

Today’s Christmas. It’s cold, but there’s no snow. There’s hasn’t been for a long, long time.

They’re going to the hospital and Sam will finally get to see Dean.

The air smells like smoke, but good smoke. It makes Sam hungry.

“Who barbeques on Christmas, for Chrissake?” Dad grumbles, leading Sam to the Impala by his hand.

“Your neighbors, apparently,” Jim says blandly. 

“John!” comes a high-pitched voice. Sam looks over his shoulder as Dad says, “ _Shit_ ,” and tugs Sam down the walkway faster. There’s a lady hurrying across her yard, into theirs. She’s wearing a big red coat. It looks warm.

“John,” Uncle Bobby says from behind them. He sounds like he’s laughing. “Someone’s callin’ for ya.”

Dad stops then, so fast that Sam almost trips. He sticks a finger in Uncle Bobby’s grinning face and mutters under his breath, “You’re on, Singer,” before turning around.

“Miss Birdie!” he calls, jovially. Bounces on his heels. Sam tries to tug his hand out of Dad’s grasp. It’s kind of hurting.

“Johnny!” says the woman – Miss Birdie, and really, she doesn’t look anything like a birdy. Sam doesn’t know why anyone would have such a dumb name. She looks like a mad scientist, maybe. Lots of gray hair. It’s all over the place. Sam tries to see if he can find any animals in it, like the clouds sometimes make.

There are lots of “Merry Christmases” after that. Sam says it too, but no one hears him.

“How are you today, John?” Miss Birdie asks. She comes to put a hand on Dad’s arm, smiles up at him.

“Good, good,” says Dad. “Just going to see my son at the hospital.”

“I’ve been praying for the poor dear, I do hope he’s doing better.”

“Much better, ma’am, thank you.”

Miss Birdie laughs then. Giggles, actually. Like girls do. Says, “Oh, don’t you ‘ma’am’ me, now. Makes me feel old.”

Sam tugs harder at Dad’s arm. “ _Dad_ , Dean’s _waiting_.” Dad looks down at him.

“I remember,” he says. Looks up at Mad Scientist Lady. “This is my younger son – Sam. Sam this pretty lady is Miss Birdie.”

“Oh, now,” says Miss Birdie, swats at Dad with her arm. Reaches down to pinch Sam’s cheek, but not really hard like some people do. Just fingers brushing over his skin. “What a beautiful boy.”

Dad hums. “Takes after his mother,” he says quietly. Miss Birdie’s smile gets softer then.

“Well,” she says, backing up a little. “I won’t keep you. But as soon as your other son is home, I insist you come over for dinner.”

“Thank you,” says Dad. “We will.”

He turns around, _finally_. Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim are standing next to the car, grinning like cats.

“Haha,” says Dad.

“Haha,” says Sam, even though nothing’s funny. Grown-ups are _dumb_. Sam never noticed before, because he used to spend all his time with Dean, but since Dean’s been sick, he’s noticing it more and more. They laugh at nothing and sit around and talk about things that make no sense.

The car door creaks, squeaks, says hello. Sam pats her just before he gets in because Dean’s not here to do it. Pastor Jim slides into the backseat next to Sam.

Pulls on one of his gloves, and lets Sam try the other one on when Sam asks.

-

There’s music playing in the hospital.

Dad tells Sam to go sit down while he talks to the receptionist, but Sam says no. Bobby tries to pull him away too; there are new toys sitting on the table, brand new. Sam says no, still. He’s going to stand right here with Dad, and he’s going to see Dean today, _no matter what_.

Bobby throws his hands up. “Well, he’s your son, John” he mutters, before going to take a seat next to Pastor Jim.

Sam looks up at Dad. “I thought you said I took after Mom.”

Dad smiles, a little smile. Beard twitching, mostly. “Best parts of your mom, worst parts of me. Like mixing vinegar and baking soda.”

“What’s that mean?” Sam asks, but Dad’s beard just twitches a little more and he doesn’t answer.

He’s happy, today. Sam can tell. He knows things like these.

A nurse – not Amelia – hands him a cookie with red and green M&Ms and he munches it while waiting with Dad.

-

Dean looks different.

Thin, like a skeleton. White, like all the color spilled out of him. His eyes are big in his face and his cheeks are - pointy. There are humming machines and wires, and the wires are _connected to Dean_. There’s something going into his _nose_. It’s like he’s half-robot, half-ghost.

HE’S _HALF-ROBOT_.

Dean sees him; his lips move. The shape says _Sammy_ , but no sound comes out. Sam presses back into Dad’s legs and it looks like more color spills out of Dean; Sam didn’t realize there was any left. Dean’s eyes flicker over Sam’s head to Dad, and then back to Sam again, lips pressing together hard. 

Sam creeps closer. Still looks mostly like Dean, even with the wires. He puts a hand on Dean’s arm. It’s warm. Pats Dean’s tummy. Reaches up to feel his face.

Dean lets him, eyebrows going up a little, but not pushing him away.

“Is he okay?” Sam asks Dad, turning around. He folds his arms over his chest, means business.

“He’s fine,” Dad tells Sam.

Sam looks at Dean again. Asks, “Can I get on the bed?” 

Dean’s face gets bright and happy then. He nods – holds out his arms. Never done that before.

Sam jumps onto the bed and holds onto his brother. His warm brother with the brother-smell. Dean’s arms come around Sam, tug him closer, (never done before either), and Sam mashes his nose into Dean’s chest, breathes hard.

Oh.

Skin tightens, throat closes. Eyes pinch.

He starts crying. Just bursts into tears. Like a water balloon popping. He can’t help it. Dean’s _still here_ , feels real and whole, not like he’s disappearing or forgetting or turning into a robot or _anything_. Just Dean. Only Dean.

Dean doesn’t laugh at him, doesn’t even try.

-

The doctor’s talking to Dad.

“Dean’s type of aphasia is very mild,” he’s saying. “Very rare too – I’m a specialist and I’ve never seen a case like this. He’s lucky, because basically, the virus that caused the encephalitis only damaged the portion of his brain that deals with speech output. We’ve done some tests and he can still read well and seems to understand others perfectly. His writing has been affected a little, because speech output has a bit to do with vocabulary access, but with work, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“So, he’ll never speak?” asks Dad. He keeps his eyes on the doctor, not looking at Dean or at Sam. Like he can’t. Sam stares at him, tries to make him look, but nothing.

The doctor’s got eyes the color of the sky on a cloudy day – they’re so light Sam feels like he can see right through them to the back of his head.

“I don’t want to give you any false hope,” he says, “but it’s possible that, with therapy and time, he’ll be able to form some words. But his speech output will _never_ be like it was before. Speaking’s going to require a great deal of effort on his part – sometimes he’ll be able to mouth the words, but not make any sounds – like you said he tried to say his brother’s name. Lots of things he won’t even be able to mouth.”

Sam looks at Dean then, and Dean gives him a small smile. It’s a different smile, somehow. Dean crosses his eyes then. Sam sticks out his tongue, gets a pinch on the arm back.

The doctor says, “You can think of it as a block in his mind – he has a large collection of words in one place in his head, but because of the brain damage, that area’s been walled off. Dean can’t reach it like we can, involuntarily – he’d have to dig, and _that_ would require something like a channel – and there isn’t one yet. That’s the part that’ll need work. It’s not that his vocal cords are damaged or that his lips can’t move – but that the message just never gets to the end point. Never makes it out of his brain. A part of him says, I want to say Daddy – message travels to his brain, to the speech centers, hits the wall in his mind. It can’t go on and it can’t make a U-turn so it just disintegrates, right there.”

Dad nods some more. He’s got a stack of pamphlets in his hands, is shuffling them around like cards. Machines beep near Dean’s bed.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

“His vocabulary may improve over time, but it won’t ever be up to standard,” the doctor continues. “But like I said, Dean’s a very lucky young man.” He smiles at Dean then. “You were telling me about looking into SEE and ASL, which is wonderful – and like I said, Dean can read and write well enough to express himself. He’s a strong-willed boy – I don’t see this dragging him down in life at all.”

-

Dean has a TV in his room. He shifts around until there’s room for Sam to sit next to him on the bed, pressed up close. He hands Sam the remote. There are a whole lot of buttons on it, more than there are on the remote at home, and Dean says that some buttons are for the bed, and some for the TV and one to call the nurse. He presses a blue one and the bed folds a little, so there’s a backrest.

Oh. He doesn’t actually _say_ it, like _talk_ , but he points to the bed and to the remote, and it’s not hard to understand or anything.

It would be okay if Dean never talked again. Nothing would be different. Sam tells Dean so, and Dean wrinkles his nose, shrugs.

A little later, Pastor Jim comes to visit. He makes Sam tell Dean the days of the week that he learned. Dean gives Sam a look – the weirdo look – because Dean _knows_ Sam knows the days of the week. But Sam lists them off anyway, because it makes Pastor Jim happy, and anyway, it’s not like Dean can tell on Sam.

…that could be a good thing.

-

Amelia brings Dean lunch, on a tray.

She smiles at Sam when she walks in. “Hey there, Sam. Long time no see kiddo.”

“I looked for you,” Sam reports. “But you were with Dean.”

“Well, what can I say? I’ve got a crush,” Amelia says, grinning at Dean. Dean turns pink.

“That’s good. Dean’s cool. He’ll be good for you.” Dean swats Sam. “What?”

“Oh, I bet he will,” Amelia laughs. The lunch tray is like a small table. Amelia sets it on top of the sheets. Dean’s legs fit right underneath.

Dean’s got sandwiches and Jell-O and a glass of juice. There’s a little plastic box of fruit and another with cookies – red cookies. The paper under the dishes is red and green and the plates and things are all white. Sam examines everything, then nods. Catches Dean looking at him. “It’s safe,” he assures and settles back down against the pillow as Dean rolls his eyes and moves stuff around, brings the Jell-O to the front.

“Hey, Amelia, you have to give Dean a muffin,” Sam says. “Remember, you said? When he got better you’d give him one. Like mine?”

“Whoa, crazy memory man! Don’t you need a license for that thing?” Amelia exclaims. She walks over to the end of Dean’s bed, pulls a big clipboard out of its holder. “Lucky for you, I have those exact muffins on my desk right now. And as soon as I’m done making sure Dean’s all okie-dokie—” she’s looking at the machines, and writing on a clipboard “—I’ll bring one back for desert. How about that?”

“Sounds good,” Sam says approvingly. He turns to Dean. “Amelia gave me a muffin, the day you came here.”

Dean nods, then moves his head back and forth like a seesaw. He slurps on a spoon of green Jell-O.

“He doesn’t really remember,” Sam translates.

“That’s okay,” says Amelia. “ _I_ don’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning. It totally happens.”

“You don’t remember what you had for breakfast!” Sam shrieks. “What if you – had _worms_!”

“Well, if I did, I’m sure they were delicious,” Amelia replies, making her eyes go big and smacking her lips.

Sam screeches, “Ew!” and Dean splutters around his Jell-O.

-

Sam has a fight with Dad. Because Dad’s being a _jerk_.

“But I don’t _want_ to go home!” says Sam.

“I’m sorry Sam, but we’re not having this discussion,” Dad says, frowning down at him.

“Why? We should have this discussion! I wanna stay.”

“And you’re not allowed. Those are the rules.”

‘You stay! And so does Uncle Bobby! And Pastor Jim!”

“I know, but me and Bobby and Jim are adults. There are different rules.”

Sam stamps his foot. 

Oh. He’s got to pee. 

He’s not going to tell Dad that, though, because then they’ll just leave faster.

“I want to stay with Dean.”

“You can’t.”

“He’s _my_ brother!” says Sam. His fingers curl into fists.

Dad thinks that’s funny. “That’s not an argument, tiger.”

Sam flies at Dean, still on the bed. “Dean! Tell Dad to let me stay.” He jumps up and down, grabs Dean’s hand. Doesn’t want to ever let it go. 

Dean looks at Sam. Looks at Dad. Pulls his hand from Sam’s and nudges him towards Dad.

Sam stands there for a minute. Can’t believe what just happened. He looks up at Dad.

Dad holds out his hand. “We’ll come back tomorrow Sammy.”

Sam gazes at the big hand, but doesn’t take it. Growls, “FINE,” and walks right past Dad and out the door.

He runs back in five seconds later because he forgot to tell Dean bye.

-

“Good day, right Sam?” Dad asks in the car. He’s sitting in the back. Bobby’s driving.

Sam stares out the window.

“Saaaaaammy,” Dad sing-songs and elbows Sam gently. 

“I’m not talking to you,” Sam says firmly. He keeps looking out the window. Slides further down the seat.

Pastor Jim laughs.

“It’s not funny!” 

More laughing.

-

Pastor Jim goes home a few days after Christmas.

“I think I’ve made my congregation wait long enough, don’t you?” he asks Sam, standing in front of the mirror in the room he and Uncle Bobby were sharing. He adjusts his collar. Sam swings his legs from his spot on the edge of the bed. The tree outside the window is naked. No leaves, no birds, just branches like claws. 

“I guess,” says Sam, even though he really wants to say no. He looks at the tree again. He could climb it, maybe.

Jim pats his suit down and looks around for his bag, before turning to Sam. He kneels down, until they’re at eye level.

“You’ve got a big job coming up Sam.”

“Really?”

Pastor Jim nods seriously, brows rising. “Oh yeah. Dean’s going to be coming home soon and you’re going have to help him best as you can. Think you can do that?”

“Of course,” says Sam. He’s good at helping Dean. He does it all the time.

Jim looks over his shoulder at the door, then faces Sam again. ‘Now, don’t tell your daddy I said this to you, but you have an even bigger job than helping Dean.”

“What?”

“Sometimes… well, sometimes your daddy… prioritizes wrong.”

“Huh?”

“He can… get a little too wrapped up in things? Thinks certain things are more important than others – goes crazy looking for solutions and chases them down like a mad man too, but the little things sort of slip his mind…” He trails off, narrows his eyes at Sam. “You’re not getting any of this are you?” Sighs, then. Says, “Okay. Well. I just want you to keep an eye on Dean, really. If he seems… sad or something just… tell your dad okay?”

“Okay,” says Sam. 

Pastor Jim smiles. “Good.”

He pulls Sam in for a hug and then stands up again. Grabs his bag.

“Well, I should be off,” he announces cheerfully, walking into the living room. Dad and Uncle Bobby stand up from the couch. There are books and papers all around them. They clap Jim on the shoulder. Jim gives Dad a long, long, _loooong_ hug.

And then – he’s off.

When the door closes behind him, the house is bigger and quieter and a little colder.

-

Miss Birdie is outside, hanging clothes in her backyard. Sam’s with her, holding a basket full of clothespins. They’re wooden, and look like little dolls without their faces. Sam could get a marker and draw some on. Maybe if there are some left over after all the clothes are up, he’ll ask.

Dad’s gone to the hospital. Last night Sam broke a lamp running around his room, even after Dad told him to stop. This is his punishment. Sam doesn’t think it’s a _really_ bad punishment, because Miss Birdie likes to feed him cookies and stuff, but the not-seeing-Dean part isn’t so good.

Miss Birdie’s huffing and puffing a little. “Clothes just take forever to dry in the winter,” she says, reaching up to throw a big white sheet over the line. It’s almost taller than her. It’s a lot taller than Sam. Not taller than Dad, probably.

“My daughter – her name’s Emily – she was supposed to come over this Christmas but decided to go over to her boyfriend’s instead. Took her daughter there too. Doesn’t sound very appropriate to me but what can you say really? It is her life now, I suppose. Anyway, Emily says I should just get a drier. I have a washing machine, but it doesn’t do the drying too.”

“You could go to the Laundromat,” Sam says, holding the bucket higher so Miss Birdie can get a pin. They always use the Laundromat. Usually Dad will sit and read a magazine and Sam and Dean will watch the clothes spin. Once, Dean gave Sam a ride in the carts with the long poles. And once, Sam fell asleep on the big table where people fold clothes. That was when he was littler.

“Yes, well,” says Miss Birdie. She smoothes out the last sheet with her hands and clips it in place. Stands back to admire her handiwork. “I do love the look of clothes on a line. Swaying and…” She waves her hands a little, lets out a puff of air. “It just looks very pretty. Reminds me of when I was a girl.”

“That musta been a long time ago,” Sam says. He puts the basket down. Sets his hands on his hips, like Miss Birdie.

“Well,” she says, with a tinkling little laugh. “I suppose. Doesn’t feel all that long.”

“Where are your parents now?” Sam asks.

“Oh, they passed away quite a few years ago.” She hums a little. Sam wants to ask what ‘passed away’ means, but her eyes are far away. Further than the sky. She lets her hands fall off her hips, then, and smiles down at Sam.

“How about we go inside? Have some brownies while we wait for your dad to come home?”

It sounds like a great idea to Sam.

-

Miss Birdie is nice. A little like Amelia. But a lot more wrinkly.

She doesn’t have an old-lady smell, though, like one person Sam knew. He doesn’t remember her name anymore, but Miss Birdie, she smells good. Like flowers, maybe.

Sam thinks if he had could have a new mom, she’d be something like Miss Birdie and Amelia and Dean, all put together. Plus, she’d sing, and she’d make Dad stay home more, and she wouldn’t yell when Sam broke a lamp because she’d _know_. He was only running around because Dad and Uncle Bobby were pressing their noses into big fat books that smelled like dust and cleaning guns and telling Sam to stay in his room, please, because there were knives out. Being best-best friends all by themselves.

And she’d never, _ever_ , forget how to be a mom.

-

Dad says, “Dean’s coming home.”

They clean the house the day before – the whole house. Uncle Bobby and Dad change bed sheets and do dishes. Dad pulls a vacuum out of the closet, like maids have in motels sometimes, and uses it all over. It takes forever and mostly it looks like Dad’s trying to stop it eating him. It screams too; Sam hates the noise, covers his ears and sits in the bathroom until it’s over. 

Then he gets to take a rag and rub it on everything – the tables, the chairs, the TV. 

The TV stings him when reaches for it. Sam pulls his hand away. The screen whispers at him.

He doesn’t try to clean the TV again.

-

Dean is bones. Bones and skin and big green eyes.

He’s got bags and bags of medicines to take. All these little orange bottles, with his name written on them. Some of them are to make sure Dean doesn’t get sick again, and some are to make sure he doesn’t start shaking – have a seizure. That’s what it was, back in the car, Sam’s learns, when they were taking him to the hospital. A seizure. Some are just to help him heal, and some are normal things like vitamins so that he can stop being skinny.

Over breakfast, the first breakfast with Dean back, Dad mumbles something about school. He’s hiding behind a newspaper. Dean’s staring into his cereal, stirring it around and around with his spoon. Some of his medicines leave a gross taste in his mouth and it makes everything taste bad.

Sam can hear cars on the road outside. Just a couple. One or two.

Oh. Another one. It’s squeaking a little.

He scoops some more cereal into his spoon. Thinks about the cereal families he’s just separated. They’ll never see each other again if he doesn’t finish the whole bowl. He takes another big spoonful, crunches it up. Maybe they’ll never see each other again, anyway. If they don’t look hard enough. If they just sit in Sam’s stomach like rocks.

Everyone’s quiet. Really quiet. Uncle Bobby went home this morning. Even bigger house now. Sam doesn’t like it better though.

“We should go to the park,” Sam says. Dean looks up. Dad doesn’t.

“Is there a park here, Dad?”

It takes Dad a minute. Slow thinking. “Maybe. We’d have to check.” Paper rustles. Page turns.

Dean looks back down at his bowl. Sam kicks him a little under the table – not hard. 

Dean doesn’t kick back.

-

Dean’s standing on the stepstool in the bathroom, looking in the mirror.

His toothbrush scrubs up and down. Down and up. Left to right. Sam crouches by the door and watches – he’s a ninja. A stealth ninja. Practically invisible.

Dean spits and rinses. Spits again. Checks his tongue and then wrinkles his nose at the boy in the mirror. Toothbrush goes back on the shelf

Dean’s lips move, making words but not making sounds. Sam creeps closer. Dean’s lips stop moving but he keeps staring at himself. His hands curl into fists. Eyebrows pull together. 

Sam’s not sure what he’s trying to do, but it looks like hard work.

-

Dad’s on the phone.

“What? No he is _not_ deaf or hard of hearing, how many times do I – yes, I understand that, but how can he not be considered a client? He _can’t speak_. Yeah, it’s a mental disability but not in the way you’re thinking. I don’t – that doesn’t make any sense. My son can _no longer speak_ and you’re saying you can’t provide any assistance because he’s not deaf too? What? We – we don’t qualify, well that’s great. Fuck you very much. He’s a child who needs help learning how to adapt. And you’re not – _fuck_ the rules! He needs an alternative means of goddamn communication what the hell do you suggest we do? Yeah, yeah, you know what? Just—”

He slams the phone back onto the cradle. Runs a hand over his beard. Through his hair. Says, quietly, “ _Fuck_.”

He leans back into the couch and his eyes meet Sam’s. Flick over Sam’s head. Sam looks over his shoulder, sees Dean standing nearby. He’s shuffling from one foot to the other. Backs up a little when he sees Dad looking at him. They’re both in the door of their room.

“You boys doing anything special?” Dad asks.

“No, sir,” says Sam. Dean shakes his head.

“Then get your shoes and jackets. We’re going to the library.”

-

The library is hushed.

“Everyone’s like you here,” Sam whispers to Dean, hanging on his arm.

Sam’s winter boots don’t really fit anymore; he put them on anyway. He can feel his toes in them, like he usually can’t. They feel big. Huge. He’s got giant’s feet today.

Dean tugs his arm away from Sam, shoves his hands into his pockets.

Dad leads the way to the bookshelves. Dean follows. Sam marches – hup, two, three, four! – right behind.

-

There are pictures of hands in all the books Dad brings back to the table. Hands with one finger sticking out, hands with two. Hands with no fingers sticking out. Curving arrows all over the place. There are letters under some pictures and words under others.

Dad’s talking quietly to Dean and reading a book at the same time. “I think we should stick to Signed Exact English. ASL would be whole new language for you. SEE is just… English with signs, mostly. A representation.” He flips a glossy page. “All you have to do is learn which signs mean what and not how to put them together; I think it’d be easier. At least to start with, we could always try ASL later when I can actually find someone willing to help you.” He looks up at Dean. “What do you think kiddo?”

Dean writes something on the pad of clean white pages next to him, slow and careful. They bought that before they came here. He slides it towards Dad and whatever he’s written makes Dad smile and reach over to ruffle Dean’s hair.

-

Dad’s filling out a form for a library card.

They’ve got a big stack of books to take home.

“Gonna have to work hard, Dean-o,” Dad says back in the car. It’s raining. “And you Sammy.”

Sam slumps. Dean kicks him, scowling.

“Sam,” says Dad, looking at him in the rearview mirror. 

Sam sits up straight.

“This is just something we have to do. Together. You won’t be able to understand Dean if you don’t learn too, so I don’t want any arguments.”

“Okay,” says Sam. He does want to understand Dean.

The windshield wipers swoosh and squeak.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s the first day of school. Figures Sammy would be freaking out. He’s hopping all over the place; Dad’s already gone to hide in the bathroom or bedroom or something, until eight o’clock comes around.

It’s April. The school year’s practically over. Dean thinks it’s a really stupid idea to be starting now, right in the middle. When he can’t talk. Stupid. What’s he supposed to do?

That’s why he’s splayed out on the couch, staring at the ceiling and thinking about Gushers. He really would like some, right about now. His stomach rumbles.

Sam races into the living room. Screeches to a halt in front of Dean. Actually screeches. Nearly blows Dean’s eardrums out. He sticks out a foot. “Tie my shoe.”

Dean sits up and grabs his little reporter’s notebook from the table. Puts pen to paper, ready to scribble out that Sam can freaking tie his own shoe, but Sam wrenches the pad out of his hand. Narrows his eyes and sticks a finger in Dean’s face. “Sign,” he orders.

Dean sighs. Not that it really matters anyway, since Sammy still can’t read properly. He raises his hands and says, Tie your own shoes, dweeb. He has to spell ‘dweeb’ out letter-by-letter but whatever. As long as Sam gets it. Or even if he doesn’t. It’s the principle.

“I tried,” says Sam, and his hands come up to make the signs too. “They keep coming untied.” The last bit he says aloud, after a couple of crap attempts. He’s slower than Dean, but he’s not bad. Of course, the way they’ve been keeping their noses to the grindstone lately, the neighbors’ dog could probably do it too.

Mac walks in just as Sam’s signing with a, “Hey, _chicos_.” Grins at the sight and says, “Good job, Sam.”

Dean rolls his eyes. She is way too easy. That’s really not good for Sam; he’ll be expecting a pat on the back every time he pees now.

Mac closes the door behind her, sets her keys down in the bowl on foyer table and takes her coat off.

Mac is their nanny. This is not something Dean plans on telling anyone at school. Ever. It’s bad enough that he has to have one in the first place – if it gets around, he’ll be the talk of the town for more than just being the mute kid.

She was Dad’s idea. After a few weeks of trying to teach himself and Dean and Sam SEE, he’d decided it really was a job for someone who knew what they were doing. That’s where Mac came in.

She’s not really a _nanny_ nanny. She’s not old or anything. Or wrinkly. She’s not Miss Birdie (thank God). Her real name is Mackenzie. She’s still in college and she always smells like peaches and languages are her _thing_. She told Sam and Dean if they tried to call her _Mackenzie_ she’d kick their butts because only her mom uses her full name.

Dean’s not sure he gets that. He thinks it’d be nice to be called something your mother calls you. Dean’s mother only ever called him Dean, but if she called him something else, maybe Dean would ask other people to call him that too. Not if it was something dumb like Deany-Beany. Or Chick. But you know. It’s not like Mom would have ever called him anything like that anyway.

Probably.

“Hello?” says Sam. Raises his shoed foot into the air and wriggles it around in Dean’s face. Almost falls on his butt.

Mac’s here, Dean tells him. Ask her.

“No,” says Sam calmly, like he’s talking to some dumb baby. “I want you to do it.”

Dean could tell Sam to stuff it. He could. And Sam would listen, eventually, go off and mope for three hours and then be back again, like the puppy Dean never got. Sometimes he thinks that, you know? That God gave him a brother instead of a puppy; mostly Dean thinks that’s okay – everyone makes mistakes, and Sam’s not bad – he can talk. Which dog can do that?

So, yeah. Dean could tell Sam to stuff it. But he doesn’t. Sits up on the couch and bends over before Sam can rest his shoe on Dean’s knee. He ties them the squirrel-goes-around-the-tree way instead of the bunny-ears way because Sam thinks that’s more grown-up. Double-knots it just to be safe.

Sammy examines Dean’s work, and then beams.

No slobbering on me, Dean signs quickly, before Sam gets any ideas. (See? Puppy.)

Sam stares blankly at him, then leans forward. Whispers, “Do you mind repeating that?”

Dean closes his eyes for a moment. Signs _slooooowly_ : No kisses.

“Oh!” says Sam. “Right. Got it. No kissing.”

And because Sammy is a smartass, he wraps his arms around Dean’s neck instead.

Almost strangles him too. Jeez.

-

Dad drives to school so he can register them and stuff.

Their school is called Lakeview Elementary and it has a kindergarten, so Sammy doesn’t have to go somewhere different. Mac’s been working with him on his writing and reading, and he’s caught up enough that even if they’re sticking him in a brand new grade near the end of the year, he shouldn’t have trouble. Dean’s going to finish up fourth grade, because he spent the last few months being sick and going to therapy at the hospital and learning sign language, not doing math or English exercises.

The school is huge, bigger than any other school Dean’s been to. Huge but… normal. Dean and Sam wait on red plastic chairs that wobble back and forth a little, while Dad stands at the desk and fills out papers. The lady behind the counter hands him sheets of papers, little glossy booklets. Smiles a lot. A _lot_ , a lot.

A couple of kids come into the office, stare as they walk past. New kids give off vibes, Dean guesses, because it never seems to matter how big the school is or how impossible it would be for someone to know every single person and actually realize they’re looking at someone brand new. They always stare. Every single time.

Wait until they find out he can’t talk.

-

“This is Dean Winchester, class,” Ms. Calgary says brightly. She explains that Dean can’t speak, briefly. Does it all extra-loud, too, like Dean can’t hear her, or like maybe the class can’t.

See, the funny thing? If Dean were actually deaf, it wouldn’t matter how loudly she talked.

Everyone stares. Stares some more. Forty spotlights, focusing on Dean. It’s blinding. Dean stares right back. He’s even more blinding.

He sighs and, because it’s not gonna get worse than this, really, pulls out his reporter’s notebook. Writes down, I can hear, I just can’t talk. He shows it to Ms. Calgary.

“Oh,” she says. Volume adjusted. “I see. I’m sorry, I thought—” She doesn’t say what she thought, but she doesn’t have to. Dean’s not an idiot – he’s figured out how this thing works. He’d started figuring it out at the hospital.

“Okay, well, why don’t you take a seat behind Michelle?” Ms. Calgary says. A girl with blonde hair – Michelle – waves at him.

Notebook flips closed with a _thwap_. Dean sits down.

-

Ms. Calgary tackles Social Studies first. That’s okay. History never changes. Dean never forgets.

The words, PIONEER LIFE IN AMERICA, are splashed across the chalkboard.

Ms. Calgary talks like someone installed a motor in her mouth. 50 mph, 70, 100, 120 – damn, there goes the sound barrier. Maybe the class is behind in social studies. Maybe she needs to hurry to keep her job. Dean would like to tell her not to bother. He’s been in more schools than he can count and they _never_ get anywhere with history. World War I is the furthest Dean’s ever gotten – and then POOF – like the world actually ended in that war instead of going on to take another shot at self-destruction.

There’s a line of books on a shelf behind the teacher’s desk. It’s the _Little House_ series. Don’t tell anyone, but Dean’s already read all of those. They’re all right, he guesses. If you like that sort of dopey stuff – the kind where everything’s okay even when it isn’t and the world is a big happy place. Even when it isn’t.

Laura Ingalls was actually real. Dean wonders what she would have done if someone killed her Ma in a house fire. Wonders what she would have done if she found out that sometimes, there really are monsters under the bed.

-

That’s what happened, you know. It’s weird, just thinking about it sometimes.

Sitting in the bright, bright classroom, with the teacher’s voice swimming about in the air. Rustle of pages, tap of pencils. Sun glare on the windows. Birds chirping outside.

Something killed his mom. She didn’t just die. She was murdered.

Something did that and Dean doesn’t know what and he doesn’t know why.

But it happened.

-

Dean follows the other students when it’s time for lunch. There’s a wave of kids heading towards the cafeteria. Dean stops just outside the double doors and sifts around in his pockets. He’d forgotten to ask for something for lunch, or for money.

He comes up with seventy-nine cents, a paper clip and some lint. His reporter’s notebook and a pencil are stuffed in his back pocket. He has no idea what food costs here, or if you need a number or how anything works.

Man, he’s hungry.

Maybe he can barter.

There’s a tap on his shoulder. He ignores it at first, because he’s standing in the middle of a stampede, and he’s been bumped a hundred billion times already. But then some burly looking kid with no hair barges past and someone grabs the bottom of Dean’s jacket.

Dean looks under his arm.

Oh. It’s Sammy.

He’s glaring ferociously at all the bumpers. Dean pulls him closer. They press against the wall.

Sam’s trying to sign something at him, but since he’s holding a paper bag in his hand, it’s sort of hard to figure out what he’s saying.

Dean smacks the back of his head. Signs, Talk. Gives him a look to make sure Sam knows Dean thinks he’s a ginormous dork.

Sam heaves a long-suffering sigh. He raises the paper bag he’s holding. “Mac dropped off lunch during art because she forgot to give it to us before. It’s for both of us. We can sit together in the lunch room, okay?”

Dean gives him a thumbs-up and Sam’s dimples appear. Dean could make fun of them – he usually does and Sam _hates_ it – but his stomach rumbles and reminds him that Sammy happens to be holding all the food and he’s perfectly capable of running away with it all.

Sam leads the way through the throng of students.

They find a couple of spots empty at a table where some of Dean’s classmates are sitting. He doesn’t know their names. Michelle’s not with them. Sam clambers onto a bench and carefully opens the lunch bag. There’s two apples, two bags with carrot sticks.

Great. Mac thinks they’re goats.

Oh. Bologna sandwiches. Two juice boxes. And a container of chocolate pudding. Sam points to it. “We have to _share_ this.” Remembers to sign, belatedly. Only gets the “we” and “to” right. Dean doesn’t bother correcting him. He can’t remember the sign for ‘share’ either.

The sandwiches taste great. Sam jabbers on endlessly about what he’s done so far and how it’s not _too_ hard and he thinks he’ll be fine. He sounds like a professor.

“Hey, see that kid,” someone says, nearby. Dean’s ears decide that is more important to listen to than Sam’s story of Sari whose best friend hates her now. One of the kids from Dean’s class motions to Dean with a thumb. He’s sitting six spots down from Sam. Dean catches it in his periphery. He says, “He can’t talk. He’s a retard or something.”

“Really? He looks normal.” Girl’s voice. Dean’s row. He doesn’t turn his head to look at her, but he can feel her eyes. Like lasers. They’re eating his skin.

“Yeah.” A hand rises – finger circles around the kid’s ear. “Probably rode the short bus to school. I bet.”

“What’s the short bus?” the girl asks.

Yeah. Dean would kinda like to know too.

Some other kid. Higher voice. “My brother says it’s the bus that retards ride on, to go to their special school.”

“Yeah, the retard rocket.”

“Well, if he rode the retard bus, why is he here? Shouldn’t he be somewhere else?”

First kid again. “What do you expect? He’s a _retard_.”

Laughter. Hyena laughter. Donkey laughter.

He could show them. They’re the retards, they just don’t know it. If only he could tell them. He’d curse them a blue-streak and make their ears fall off.

“Dean? Hey. Dean? Dean, Dean, Dean. DEAN!”

Dean looks at Sam. Sam points at his sandwich. “You have a half left,” he says.

Dean’s not hungry. He wants to tell Sam that he can have it, if he wants too. He tries to make the words come out of his mouth. They don’t.

He stares at his hands, on the table.

They don’t move.

He’s silent. He’s a shadow. A ghost. He’s a nobody.

-

Dad asks, “How was school?”

Dean shrugs. Sam launches into a blow-by-blow recount.

He wants to say, Don’t make me go back there. Wants to say, Forget school. Who needs it?

Wants to say, Let me help you, Dad. I could help you. I could kill things. Monsters.

Talking doesn’t matter there.

But wait.

If he can’t talk…

If he can’t even make a sound…

What happens if he needs to warn Dad or something? What happens if he needs to call for help? What happens if he needs to say an incantation or a prayer or something?

What happens then?

He can’t stand there, with a gun in his hand and a bag of salt at his feet, and sign it. Hope that Dad’s looking his way at the right moment. Doesn’t get shish kabob-ed. Doesn’t let Dean get shish kabob-ed.

Sammy’s still chattering. Dean looks at him. His floppy hair. Big eyes. Tiny little hands, tiny little face, tiny little body.

Anything could just – _snap_.

Dean could do it, if he wanted to. Something could _make_ Dean do it.

Or. Something could get them. If Dean can’t talk. Something could get him. Maybe even get Dad. Maybe. Dean would be a… that word. A – a – a danger. A _liability_. Liabilities get you killed, even if you _are_ a superhero.

Then where would Sam go? What would he do?

He’d be alone. Just this little, tiny, snap-able… boy.

So. Dean can’t... he can’t ever hunt.

This is it for him. This is who he’s supposed to be.

Don’t be a little kid, says a voice in Dean’s head. Don’t be stupid. Be brave. Mom would have wanted you to be brave.

But really, all he wants to do is cry. All he wants to do is curl up and cry.

-

“Dean?” Mac taps him on the nose and Dean blinks. She gives him a small smile.

“You were spacing out on me kiddo.” She marks the page in the book they were reading/signing. It’s a weird book. But not bad weird. There are brothers in it too. “Anything on your mind?”

Dean thinks about it for a minute. Telling her.

Chyeah. Right.

It’s not like Mac knows anything about hunting. The day Dad hired her, he told her that he takes protection very seriously. He didn’t tell her that Dean has a .45 in his duffel that comes out and sleeps under Dean’s pillow when Dad’s away. He did tell her about his “sons’ BB guns”.

There was a look on Mac’s face when he said that. Like she’d tasted something bad. But it went away quickly. She never says anything about it either. Dean’s pretty sure she doesn’t approve. But then, Dean’s pretty sure Mac doesn’t know that werewolves are real. Dad’s saving people’s lives. People like her.

He can’t tell her any of this.

Dumb kids at school, he signs, instead. Not that it’s bugging me, he adds quickly. In case she gets the wrong idea.

“Kids,” Mac says. Corrects his sign. Then she smiles again. Takes Dean’s hand in her own. Her hand is nice; long thin fingers. Smooth palm. Warm. “Kids are going to be jerks no matter who you are or what you can and can’t do,” she says. “Even I get shit, and I’m in university.” She pauses. “Don’t tell your dad I said shit, though.”

What for? Dean signs.

Mac looks stumped for a moment. “Well, it’s not exactly professional. Though maybe I could say I’m supposed to be teaching you how to sign the English language and ‘shit’ is a word—”

Dean shakes his head frantically, laughing.

“What? What?” Mac’s eyes widen. “ _Oh_. What do I get shit for?”

Dean nods.

“Well. This.” She shakes her head so her short, rainbow colored hair flops around. “And this.” She taps her eyebrow piercing. Then she looks over her shoulder and lifts her shirt up a little.

Her bellybutton is pierced too.

HER _BELLYBUTTON_.

“And that.” She smiles at Dean. “Some people just don’t like it if you’re different. Doesn’t matter what kind of different. But then you have people like you and your dad and Sam. None of you care about this stuff, do you?” She waves her hands at herself.

Dean shakes his head fervently. Brings his first two fingers and thumb together over and over: No, no, no, no, no. NEVER.

Mac grins. “Exactly. So you just have to meet the right people. They’ll accept you for exactly who you are, because they’ll know.”

Know what?

“What a catch you are,” Mac says. “And until then, you have me.”

“And meeeeeee!” Sam comes running out of nowhere and pretends to dive-bomb into Mac’s lap.

Little eavesdropper.

“And Sam,” Mac agrees. She looks back at Dean. “Just you wait. Things will look up soon enough. Now—” she lifts up _The Plant that Ate Dirty Socks_ again, “—we have signing to do.”

-

Next morning.

They wait in front of their house for the school bus. It rained last night. Everything’s wet, even the air. The sky is still gray.

Dean’s hot and cold at the same time. His shoulders are aching. It feels like he tied a rope around his chest this morning before getting dressed.

Mac comes running out of the house. “Lunch!” she chirps, handing them their bags. “Totally didn’t forget this time.”

“There!” Sammy exclaims. Bounces like a frog. Points.

Dean’s heart wants out of his chest, _NOW_. It’s very demanding.

The bus is coming around the corner. Big yellow caterpillar. It hisses. Wooshes. Stops in front of their house.

It’s not the short bus. It’s the regular bus. The long one.

Dean helps Sam get up the big steps and feels all the tension running out of his body. It trickles down onto the street and slips into the drain. The rope around his chest is gone.

Mac waves to him in the window and Sam leans over Dean to wave back. Dean puts a hand on his face, pushes him back. Waves to Mac too, when she glares pointedly at him and waves harder.

Psh. See?

Not a retard. Duh.

-

Dean gets called into the counselor’s office in the middle of math.

He doesn’t mind all that much.

The counselor’s name is Miss Burgess. She smiles at Dean when he knocks on the open door and tells him to come in.

Dean sits down. Flops down really. Spreads his legs out. Stretches a bit.

The counselor looks nice. Young. Not as young as Mac, but close. She has brown hair to her shoulders and brown eyes. She’s got a… thing, strapped on her shoulders like a backpack. A tank. It’s black.

“So, Dean,” says Miss Burgess, looking up from the folder on her desk. She catches Dean staring and smiles a little. “Do you prefer sign language or is it fine if I just talk?”

You can sign? Dean asks.

“Sure can,” she says. Signs at the same time.

It’s okay, Dean says generously. Just talk.

“Right,” says Miss Burgess. “You’re probably wondering what this thing is, huh?” She jabs a thumb over her shoulder.

No, Dean says. Shrugs a little. He could care less. In fact, he doesn’t care at all. He looks up at the ceiling. Interesting - it’s white.

Miss Burgess hums a little. “Well, can I tell you anyway?”

Dean gives her the go ahead. Why not? If it’ll make her feel better.

“It’s an oxygen tank. My lungs don’t work very well – they haven’t since I was a kid. So I get to carry extra oxygen around all the time, to help my lungs get all the air they need.”

All the time? Dean asks.

“Yep. All the time. Does it bother you?”

Dean shakes his head. Why should it? It just looks like she’s carrying around a tank. If she hadn’t said anything, he wouldn’t know it’s helping her get air. He wonders if it’s connected to her somehow. Like, going _inside_ her body. That could be cool.

“Okay,” Miss Burgess says. “Well, you just started here, so I wanted you to know where my office was and that you can come and talk to me whenever you like, okay? Whatever the reason, even if it seems like nothing to you. If it bothers you, come tell me about it.”

As if. Dean nods anyway, so she feels like she’s accomplishing something.

“How do you like Lakeview so far?”

Dean makes the _so-so_ sign with his hand. Looks around the office. There are frames behind Miss Burgess’s desk, with colorful shards of glass stuck on the wood. A lot of frames. There are more on the other walls too.

“My students,” says Miss Burgess. “The ones who come talk to me a lot get to make a frame and then I put their pictures up.” She smiles at them fondly.

“Maybe you can do one,” she suggests.

Dean shrugs.

Maybe. Maybe not.

-

Ms. Calgary holds up flash cards with the shapes of the fifty states on them. The whole class is sitting in a circle. Two students stand up. The one who names the state first moves on to challenge the next student.

Dean gets to sit out, because almost everyone’s faster than the kid who has to write down the name of the state.

He keeps sitting in his chair, writes down the names of every single damn state on the flashcards even though Ms. Calgary didn’t tell him to. He gets them all right too.

Couple of kids are glancing at him every now and then. Snickering into their sleeves. Dean waves at them and they stop laughing abruptly.

Fucking Lakeview.

-

Recess. Dean walks up to some of the kids from his class. The ones that think they’re particularly funny. He starts signing at them.

Their faces go from confused to uncomfortable to freaked out.

He signs faster. He’s making no sense, just sticking together whatever pops up in his mind.

“Um,” one girl says. “What?”

Dean sighs then, loudly. Shakes his head. Looks at them all like the pathetic things they are and walks away.

If he’s got to do this thing. Well. He might as well use it to his advantage, right?

Right.

-

Fingers tapping on the door. Dean keeps his head under the sheets.

“Up and at ‘em, Dean,” Dad says gently. “You have therapy today.”

ARGH. Therapy.

Dean doesn’t move. Holds his breath too. He is a rock. He is a stone. He does not need any more stupid therapy, thank you very much.

Don’t come in, he thinks. Don’t open the door. I am a stone.

No more tapping. No more words. Dean relaxes.

The door opens. Crap.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam. Tiny fingers prodding the blanket. “Dean? Are you awake?”

Quiet, for a long time. The door doesn’t close again. But it’s still quiet. Dean holds his breath. Tries to hear Sammy breathing.

Nothing.

He pokes his head out of the covers. Sam’s eyes widen comically. He’s still standing right there, next to the bed.

Fuck, Dean thinks.

Oh, wait. He can smell something. Pancakes. Huh. Dean glances out the window, just in case pigs are flying. Dad hasn’t made pancakes in… a long time.

“Are you getting up?” Sam asks.

Dean thinks about it. Shakes his head. Not even pancakes are worth therapy. Everyone acts like he’s a dumb kid there.

“DAD!” Sam screeches at the top of his lungs.

“Hug ‘im, Sam. Hug him into submission!” Dad calls back.

A huge grin spreads on Sam’s face. Wicked. The little monster.

Dean tries the puppy-dog eyes, but they seem to have no effect because Sam leaps anyway, slathers himself all over Dean.

Beaten. Beaten by his own dad. It’s a cruel world.

-

“Hey! New kid!”

Dean’s in the yard. He’s lying on the grass and staring at the sky. The clouds are gray-black. Rumbling. Lighting flashes behind them every now and then. The wind rushes around him, and the grass rustles. Dean loves it. Only loves two things more. Weeeell. Three. Including Mom.

He sits up at the sound of a voice. There’s a girl leaning over the fence, in Miss Birdie’s yard and she’s not Miss Birdie. No one lives with Miss Birdie, not even her husband, because he passed away.

Dean pulls out his notebook.

Are you trespassing? Dean writes. He folds a paper airplane, shoots it towards the girl. The wind swishes around a bit but it falls on her side of the fence. She jumps off the fence to get it, opens it up. Puts her arms back over the fence, toes on the horizontal board near the bottom.

“No,” the girl says. She’s got black hair. Long, down past her shoulders, down past the fence. “Are you the new kid?”

Dean shakes his head. He’s lived here for months now. He’s not new. Points to her.

The girl splutters. “I’ve been here before. A million times. Never seen you though.”

Maybe you should look harder, Dean thinks. Writes it down and airplane’s it to her. The leaves on the trees shudder, laugh. It was funny.

The girl narrows her eyes at that. “I’m Lily.” She stops. Gazes pointedly, like she’s waiting for something.

Dean stares right back. “And?” she asks. Dean raises his eyebrows.

Lily rolls her eyes. “Who are you?”

Dean writes his name on a page, big letters. Shows the notebook to her and then signs it, letter-by-letter. Thunder. Loud, loudest yet. The wind tries to push Dean over.

Lily’s eyes move back from the sky to Dean. “Dean,” she repeats. She tries the signing. Screws it all up. “Cool.”

She jumps down, peers at Dean through the fence slats. “Nice to meet you, Dean,” she says brightly.

Lightning flashes and Lily runs away, into Miss Birdie’s house.

-

Two weeks.

Dean gets through them. Doesn’t have a nuclear meltdown. Doesn’t go kamikaze on the whole of Lakeview Elementary. Takes pity on the poor saps. Leaves the school standing.

Pat me on the back, he signs to Sammy, ‘cause he feels like it.

Sammy does so with fervor.

-

“Retard!” someone hisses. “Retard? Hey, you deaf too?”

Ms. Calgary is correcting tests at her desk. This is reading hour. Dean keeps his eyes on his book.

“RETARD!”

Dean glances up at Ms. Calgary. Wants her to look up for a moment. He imagines it. Imagines her coming to his rescue. Feels hot all over.

On second thought, he wants her to stay right where she is.

“Retard’s deaf,” the voice says. Dean knows who it is now. Mark Holmes. Mark is what people call a douchebag. People being Dad, mostly.

Something hits the side of Dean’s head and lands on his desk. Crumpled up piece of paper. Dean sighs and opens it up. Smoothes it out.

It’s a stick figure. A poor one. It’s drooling, Dean thinks. Or it’s supposed to be drooling. Sammy could do it better.

Dean looks up, and over his shoulder.

Mark grins big and mean, nods his head a little. Yeah, you punk. I’m lookin’ at you.

Dean rolls his eyes and glances at Ms. Calgary. Makes sure she’s occupied, and then turns back to Mark. Raises his fist, and then slowly lifts his middle finger.

Big ol’ grin drips right off Mark’s face. Like drool.

Dean goes back to his book.

-

Sam is a regular social butterfly. He has friends. So God knows why he keeps on sitting with Dean at lunch.

Go sit with your friends, Dean writes on his reporter’s notebook. Sam’s lips move as he sounds out ‘friends’. Says ‘fry-ends’ twice before he gets it.

“Why?” he asks. Bites down on his apple. Juice runs down his chin.

Because, Dean signs.

“That’s not a reason.”

Yes.

“No.”

Yes.

“No.”

Dean wishes there was a way to yell in sign language. YES, he writes down, using the whole page.

“NO,” Sam bellows, making his voice monster-deep. Piece of apple in his mouth. Dean’s disgust must show on his face, because Sam’s mouth pops closed and his cheeks turn pink. “Sorry,” he says. Chews as fast as he can.

Sammy gets embarrassed about the weirdest things. Dean’s obviously got more work to do – kid could have milked that for all it was worth.

-

Saturday.

Dean wakes up to Dad trying to sing the house down.

“Well I never been to heaven, but I've been to Oklahoma. Well they tell me I was born there, but I really don't remember!”

Something good must have happened yesterday. Dad went to work.

Sammy’s already awake.

Dean can hear him asking, “Were you really born in Oklahoma?”

He always does that. And Dad always sings back, “What does it matter? What does it matter?”

-

Every Tuesday they have P.E.

Before the gym teacher had been on leave, but she’s back now, so they’re actually doing something for once – playing kickball.

Dean’s at the plate. The ball rolls up – he kicks - it goes flying!

First base – second – third—

The other team is shouting and scurrying around. Like ants when you blow on them. They won’t get the ball in time though. Dean kicked it with everything he’s got. Dean kicked it out of this _world_. “Damn, look at that beaut,” Dad would have said, if he could have seen. “Look at her go.”

Home plate. Dean slides.

His team erupts. The cheers echo around the gym’s blue walls. It sounds like the whole world’s cheering for Dean. He raises his arms above his head – the cheering gets louder. Dean’s grin is going to break his face. Kevin comes up and slaps him on the back. Megan squeals happily in his ear. Even Mark-the-douche looks pleased.

Kickball. Don’t need to talk to do that well.

-

During lunch, Cy waves him over.

His name is actually Richard, but everyone calls him Cy. It stands for Cyclops. Because he has one real eye and one glass one. He’s the class screw-up – well, after Dean, that is. He makes a joke out of it though. Usually, when Ms. Calgary is reading, she stands next to his desk and keeps her piece of chalk poking his neck. This has two advantages – one, Cy’s desk in right in the middle of the class, so she doesn’t have to worry about the back row not being able to hear her and two, it stops Cy from mocking everything everyone says in the book. Mostly because he’s trying hard not to choke.

“Want to sit with us?” Cy asks. Penn Foster’s sitting at the table and so are Jeremy Winger, Jaime Hallows and Wentworth Collins. Jaime’s got an earring in his ear. It glints.

Dean looks over at his usual table, where Sam is waiting.

He takes out his notebook. Writes out, Can my brother sit with us?

If these kids somehow forgot he’s the retard, they’ve just been reminded.

But Cy doesn’t look fazed. He takes the notebook, reads and hands it back.

“Your brother cool?” he asks.

Yeah, Dean writes. But he’s a kindergartner.

“One of the midgets, huh?” Cy says. Grins, then. “Sure, why not?”

“Why are we sitting with them?” Sam whispers when Dean goes to fetch him.

Dean doesn’t say anything. He’s not really sure himself.

-

They sit down. Sam right next to Dean. He’s practically pasted to his side. Dean can feel their cells fusing. They’ll be two people in one body if he keeps it up. Dean hopes no one else can tell.

“So, Dean,” Cy says. He’s got this tone – like he thinks he’s king of the rock. Dean’s heard it before. There was this guy that Dad met once, to talk about hunting. He’d been like that. Kept calling Dad, “Johnny-boy” or “kiddo”. Talked like he’d seen everything there was to see, like if he hadn’t seen it, it didn’t exist.

“So, Dean,” Cy repeats. It looks like he’s trying to get his eyes to x-ray Dean. “So. _Dean_.”

Dean really wants to ask someone to kick him. He’s stuck on loop. The radio in the Bobby’s truck does that sometimes. All it ever needs is a good kick.

Sam’s watching Cy with wide eyes. “Are those the only words you know?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Well, it’s good you know Dean, now, right? Is that why you wanted us to sit here? It must be weird, saying ‘So, Dean’ to everyone, when their name isn’t Dean.”

Dean has to bite his cheeks hard to keep from laughing. Cy’s face is a little frozen, but it smoothes out quickly.

“Huh,” he says to Sam. “I like you.”

“Huh,” Sam shoots back. “You know more words.”

“What do they call you kid?” Cy asks.

“They call me Sam.” He opens up his lunch bag, pulls out his carrot sticks. “And this is my big brother Dean. They call him Dean. Well, actually Dad sometimes calls him Dean-o, but you’re not Dad.”

Dean’s scribbling in his notebook before Sam’s done talking. He sticks it in front of Cy’s nose.

Dean. Just Dean. You can call my brother Sammy, though.

“Just Dean and Sammy,” says Cy. Dean should have known. Sam looks outraged at the use of ‘Sammy’ but can’t say anything because his mouth is stuffed full of carrot.

Cy sticks out a hand. “Nice to meetcha.”

-

Ms. Calgary gets hyperactive over commas and Cy passes Dean a note.

It doesn’t say anything special.

Just, Lunch was fun today.

Dean stares at it for awhile, then writes down his response and slides the note back.

It was fun.

Dean can’t remember ever thinking that before. Anywhere.

Ms. Calgary’s antennae go up. Someone’s thinking about fun.

“Dean?” she says, turning away from the board that has more white on it than black, now. “Are you listening?”

Dean nods earnestly. As earnestly as he can manage.

(Sammy cornered him one day to give him lessons. Dean’s not sure it worked.)

-

Lily is Miss Birdie’s granddaughter. She’s come to stay for a few months.

She’s homeschooled. Her mom’s name is Emily. She doesn’t have a dad. Not right now, at least. Apparently, her mom’s shopping around.

She tells Dean all of this, hanging over the fence. Dean listens. It would be rude not to. Besides, she’s not annoying.

You know, lilies are supposed to be good luck, Dean tells her once. In China.

“Good thing I’m not in China,” Lily says, handing his notebook back.

-

A week of lunches.

“We’ve decided,” Cy says the next Tuesday. “You’re gonna be official members.”

“Official members of what?” Sam asks suspiciously.

“Our family,” Jaimie-with-the-earring says, like it’s obvious.

“But first,” Jeremy says, “you need to be initiated.” He adjusts his glasses on his nose. Puts his hands behind his back.

“How?” asks Sam.

Maybe when God gave him Sammy, he wasn’t giving him a puppy, he was giving him a translator. Or something. A mind reader. Because usually, when Sam’s around, Dean doesn’t have to bother signing or writing. Sammy just takes the words right out of him mouth.

“I won’t do it if it’s legal,” Sam says.

Great. Just when you think…

Dean rolls his eyes and pulls his notepad out. Writes: _ILL_ egal, stupid head.

“Oh, right,” says Sam. “ _ILL_ egal. I won’t do it then.”

“Don’t worry, Sherriff,” Cy says. “It ain’t nothin’ illegal. All you have to do is touch my eye. The glass one.”

“That’s disgusting!” Sam exclaims. “Really?”

“Yep. Chicken?”

“No,” Sam mutters. Nudges Dean. “You first.”

Cy leans forward. Dean then reaches out a finger without hesitation. He’s one cool cat. He touches Cy’s dead eye. It’s a little wet. Mostly hard.

Sam still looks like he might turn tail and run, but he reaches forward just like Dean did. Taps Cy’s eye and then yanks his hand back, scrubs it on his shirt.

“Excellent,” Cy says, smartly. “Welcome to the family, Just Dean and Sammy.”

-

He walks out of the school, heads over to where the buses wait, near the kindergarten classes.

Sam’s class is walking out. They line up. The teachers start chatting with each other, unvigilant.

Mark Holmes walks up to the line of kids. Walks up to Sam.

Dean’s feet move faster.

Mark’s hand reaches out. He pushes Sam, and Sam lands on his knees, hard, and Dean has never been so fucking pissed in his life. His feet are on rockets. Mark’s saying, “Aw, is retard’s brother gonna cwy?”

Dean rushes up to Mark, grabs the front of his jacket.

“Hey - let go of me, retard,” Mark says immediately, struggling. He’s bigger than Dean. He manages to get loose.

Dean pushes past him, helps Sam up. Sam whose jeans are torn at the knees, whose palms are bloody. His eyes are wet. Dean brushes him off carefully, gets to his feet again.

Turns around and gets a fist in the eye.

He falls to the pavement. Can’t see for a minute. It hurts like hell. He can hear Sam shouting: “You jerk! You big fat jerk! You stupid, fat, ugly, _JERK-FACE_!”

Another voice shouts, “Hey!” and there’s a grunt, then. Maybe two. Dean blinks. See’s two people rolling on the ground – Mark is one and – and – _Cy_ is the other. Cy. Cyclops. Huh.

“What is going _on_ here?!” A teacher. Finally. They really, _really_ need some work.

Sam’s giving it his all. “That guy hit my brother! For _no reason_! And he pushed me!” he wails. Sniffs loudly. Oh, yeah. The big guns are coming out – puppy-dog eyes, FULL POWER. The teachers don’t stand a chance.

Cy is shouting, “Those are my friends, loser!” Pulling Mark’s hair. The teacher’s spring into action, try to separate them.

Dean’s vision clears more, as a teacher kneels next to him. “Hey? Are you okay? Look at me, sweetheart, look at me now.” She lifts Dean’s chin with a finger, gently. Smells like flowers.

“That’s going to bruise,” she says with a wince. Looks over her shoulder, where Mark is standing with a teacher’s hand on his shoulder, looking shocked and holding his fist and looking teary. Cy’s being held back by Mr. Hanson, who teaches music. Cy looks mutinous.

They all get sent to the principal’s office – he and Cy and Mark and Sam. Dean and Sammy get off scot-free because apparently Mark’s a troublemaker and Principal Dickens is getting tired of his shenanigans. Cy get’s a warning.

Mark gets suspended.

-

Lily’s in her yard when the school bus drives up. Dean jumps down, gives Sam his hand to help him jump too.

Lily watches as they go up the walk. “Dean!” she calls.

“What?” Sam calls back.

Lily’s used to Sam speaking for Dean. “You look happy,” she says.

Sam stops at that, peering up at Dean calculatingly. “He _looks_ like he has a messed up eye,” Sam states.

Dean shrugs. He keeps walking. Strolling, really. Sammy hooks his scraped-raw hand in Dean’s and swings his arm.

Maybe he is. Happy, that is.

-

Dad stares at his black eye and Sam’s scratched up knees.

“Tell me what happened again?” he asks, dabbing on stingy stuff.

Dean shrugs. If he could talk he’d say, Fell on a fist. But you should see the other guys!

“Dean, if you’re having trouble at school—”

But Dean shakes his head heard. Signs, I’m not, promise. It was just. Kids. Being mean to Sammy.

Dad nods then, slowly. “Okay, kiddo.”

-

Miss Burgess, the counselor, calls him to her office. Asks, “How are things going Dean? I heard you got into a fight. You want to tell me about that?”

Dean tells her, things are going fine, yeah he got into a fight and no, he doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s getting better and better at this sign language thing. He looks at her brightly. Big smile. Opens his swollen eye as wide as it can go.

Ouch, shit.

Miss Burgess nods and her lips pull together, but she doesn’t press. She smiles and pats his hand and tells him he can tell her about any trouble he’s having, he knows that right?

Dean nods. Anything else I can do for you? he writes out on his notepad.

“Um. No,” she says. Lips twitch. “Thank you though.”

Dean leaves.


	4. Chapter 4

On Sunday Dad drops them off at the park. Tells them he needs to run some errands, which is code for a quick hunt, of course. It must be nearby. He says they can play until Mac comes to pick them up and that he’ll be back before sunset.

They go on the swings for a while. Actually, Dean swings for five minutes and then gets off to give Sam a push – not too high though, because Sam’s a chicken. He starts screaming if you push too hard. Dean’s tried to tell him over and over that there’s no point in sitting on the stupid swing if he’s not going to try to move more than five inches. Sam doesn’t care. He’s dumb. Scared of swinging but not of rats or spiders or anything really scary. Dumb.

Afterwards they have a couple of races. The park has a track around it. Grown-ups are jogging. Dean beats Sam, except for the last time. The last time, he starts feeling sorry for his red-faced, panting brother, and lets Sam beat him – by an inch.

They flop down on the grass to catch their breath. Dean sees a lemonade stand, fishes some change out of his pocket and runs to buy some. He spills it a bit on the walk back. No harm done. Only stick fingers. He licks them clean, then slurps the lemonade with Sammy.

While Sam sits on the see-saw with some girl, Dean goes on the monkey bars. He can go back and forth four times before his hands and arms start aching. Runs over to a tree then; climbs it. Climbs as high as he can before he jumps off. Runs to the slide. Goes up. Goes down. Feet land in the puddle at the bottom – _splish_. It’s muddy water, but Dean doesn’t care. You can’t care about these little things when there are lives at stake. When killers are running free.

Dean is strong. He’s fast.

He still can’t talk.

He imagines he’s gone hunting with Dad, anyway. For a minute.

-

They’re at the Mini-Mart. Dean and Cy and Jaime-with-the-earring.

Cy heads to the candy aisle, looks around a couple of times, and then slips a PayDay into his windbreaker’s pocket. Then a packet of peanut M&Ms.

Dean watches him blandly. Keeps his hands in his pockets. Looks around casually. The Pop-Tarts are mocking him two shelves above. Shorty! they snigger.

Cy grins when he catches Dean’s eye. “Puttin’ bread on the table, right?”

Eh, what the hell. He nods, smiles widely.

-

“It’s our thing,” Cy says. “The whole family can do it. You’re going to have to learn too.”

And Sam? Dean writes.

“Not Sam. He’s just a kid, we can’t be sure he won’t rat us out,” Jeremy says. Pulls his glasses off to wipe them on his shirt.

Well. Sam doesn’t have the tiniest mouth, Dean supposes.

“Rule numero uno,” Penn says. “Big pockets.

“But not a big coat,” Wentworth adds. “Don’t wanna stand out. Biggest pockets you can get, on whatever jacket looks okay to be wearing outside.”

Dean’s laughing a little on the inside. He nods carefully, listens raptly.

These guys don’t know who they’re dealing with.

Dean knows all about stealth. He knows all about blending in.

-

For Dean’s first ‘on-field mission’, they tell him to keep it small.

“Just grab some Tic Tacs,” Went insists. 

Dean goes into the 7-Eleven by himself. See, if you do it right? Not even a black eye is going to get you caught.

Rule number one – big pockets. Okay, fine. But there’s such a thing as waistbands too. Wear smaller underwear, so the waistband is tight. Less chances of stuff falling out your pants’ legs that way too. You can hide stuff anywhere.

Rule number two – don’t look at the cashiers. No matter how much you want to. You’ll blink too much or just look suspicious. Whatever it is, it’ll give you away.

Rule number three – don’t run right to the motherload. Browse a little. Stare longingly at the box of fruit rollups. The toy airplane. The big things you don’t have the money to buy. Pretend like you’re a dumb kid with eyes too big for his head.

Rule number four – if you can, wait until the cashier is occupied. But don’t wait too long.

Dean comes out with rolls of Life Savers pressing into his stomach. Butterfingers and Snickers bars in his pockets.

Cy and Wentworth look like their eyes are about to fall out of their heads.

“HOLY COW!” they whisper-scream, two blocks away from the 7-Eleven. “HOLY COW. OH _MAN_.”

They stop at Went’s house. Dean lifts a finger. Rummages around in his coat. Wait for it… wait for it… pulls out one box of white Tic Tacs. He hands it to Went.

Went and Cy stare at it blankly for a moment and then burst into hysterical laughter.

Cy and Dean walk back to Dean’s house. “You’re a jackpot,” Cy says wisely. He’s grinning from ear to ear.

At Dean’s house, he gives Dean a salute. Says, “Keep the loot, you deserved it.”

He waves at Dean as he walks. Dean waves back.

-

Dean stashes the ‘loot’ in the cupboard. Not like Dad ever really looks in there anyway. Mac will just think they went shopping.

He keeps a roll of Life Savers.

-

Bath time. Dean fills the tub and the strips. Gets in.

This is how he figures it.

Dad hustles pool to put bread on the table. Usually gets credit cards with fake names on them. But he hasn’t been doing that lately. Dean doesn’t know how they have money for food and stuff but—

He could help. _This_ is how he could help.

He could steal stuff. He’s a master at it. He could steal food and anything – clothes from the Salvation Army, whatever they need.

That way, Dad wouldn’t have to spend time making money. He could hunt all the time. Make up what he’s losing because Dean can’t ever help him out now. This way he’d still be able to save more lives.

All Dean needs to do is practice. Train. Get so good, _no_ one will ever even think of catching him. Because how many kids know about DNA and not leaving it around? How many other kids would know to wear gloves? How many would be trained in stealth? How many can’t make a sound, even if they wanted to?

He could be the best. The best there ever was.

Dean holds his breath. Sinks to the bottom of the tub, water closing over his ears and nose and eyes.

He listens to his heartbeat. Lets out his breath in a burst of bubbles and floats to the top of the water again. Cold air hits his knees and stomach and face.

He thinks it’s a good idea.

-

Mac takes Sam to the library and Dad takes Dean to a shooting range.

They practice for three hours. Dean hits all his targets except one. Dad’s standing taller when they leave. Burning bright, like a star. Like the sun. 

Dean gets to sit in the front with him on their way back home. He looks Dad over. Looks for new cuts, new scars, new injuries. There’s nothing he can see. His dad’s too good for that. He’s too good to fall. Maybe he gets hurt, but he always stands right back up. That’s how Dean wants to be.

Dad catches him looking. Smiles a little but doesn’t say anything. 

Dean rolls his window all the way down. The air smells fresh and cool and clean.

-

He has this memory, of Mom.

It was a day just like this. A little later maybe, near sunset, because the sky was orange-pink and shadows were everywhere. But it was still a day like this. Fresh. Cool. Good.

This was before God gave them Sammy.

He and Mom were sitting on the porch steps. Dean on one step below, between Mom’s legs. Mom had an orange, one of the kind you can just peel and eat. Spit out the seeds. Dean spit one onto the grass, and Mom said, “Whoops.” She bent to pick it up, just like that, with her fingers, even though it came from Dean’s mouth. Said, “Shouldn’t litter.” And the next time Dean had to spit a seed, she let him do it in her hand.

That’s how much she loved him. That’s what she let him do.

They sat there and ate the orange, juice dripping down their chins. Mom smelled like oranges afterwards, strong and sweet. She tickled him under his arms, said, “Ready to go inside, mister?” Tickled him over and over until he was laughing helplessly and couldn’t say no. She grabbed him then, hauled him over her shoulder. Mom was strong, Dean remembers.

They went inside and later, during dinner, Mom let Dean have her desert, even though it was vanilla cream pie – her favorite.

See?

_That’s_ who they took. _That’s_ what they do.

The good ones are the ones to go, Dad said. Always the good ones.

-

“Where did you go today?” Sam whispers later, when they’re in bed.

It’s dark. Dean doesn’t know how Sam expects him to answer.

The mattress bounces a little. Sammy getting out from under the covers. Dean sits up. Wants to shout, Hey! but can’t. Of course.

He sits there for a minute, two. Watches Sam open the closet and rummage around in it. The curtains are still open. Moonlight spills into the room, silvery and light. Sam comes back, burrows under the covers. Dean pulls his head in. A light comes on, blinding.

“See!” Sam whispers. “We can talk now.” Dean reaches out, pushes Sam’s hand so the light isn’t pointing in his eyes.

“Sorry,” Sam says sheepishly. “So? Where’d ya go?”

Dean thinks about it. Nowhere, he replies.

Sam’s silent for a long moment, just watching. “You’re lying,” he says. Not whispering. Just quiet talking. Calm talking. Like Dad, when he knows Dean’s lying. Like Dean, when he knows Sammy’s lying.

Sam’s eyes are... Dean doesn’t know. It’s weird. It scares him, maybe a little.

Shut up, he signs. I’m not.

“Really?” Sam asks. Doubt laces his words.

Dean’s heart is going wild; he doesn’t know why.

Yes, Dean signs. He reaches out, finds Sam’s knee and squeezes it. Remembers something. He rolls over, pulls open his nightstand drawer. The Life Savers are still there.

“What is it?” Sam asks. Dean rolls back, covers himself up with the sheets. Settles back into the pillows and lifts his feet, makes a tent of the covers. He unwraps the Life Savers. The first two are red. He hands one to Sam.

The flashlight focuses on Sam’s hand. “Life Savers?” Sam says, awe in his voice. “Where’d you get ‘em?”

Money, Dean signs.

“Wow,” Sammy breathes. Pops the candy into his mouth. 

They suck on the candy until it disappears, have another two pieces afterwards. They sneak into the bathroom together to re-brush their teeth. They go to sleep with aching jaws. Sam wiggles closer until his head is on Dean’s pillow and Dean doesn’t push him away. He’s too tired, anyway.

-

Someday, Sam’s going to stop believing him.

Someday, Sam’s not going to buy that Dad’s a traveling salesman.

Someday, he’s going to connect the guns and the books.

Someday, he’ll want to know what really happened to Mom and he’s not going to take no for an answer. He’s not going to be pulled away and appeased and manipulated.

Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do then. Doesn’t know if he ever wants that day to come. Maybe, to have someone to talk to, about Dad and what he does. When Dad’s not here. But. It would be easier if it never happened.

These things, the things in the dark. Once you know about them, that’s when they start the real attack. You can go your whole life thinking they don’t exist – then one day, find out they do, and see them everywhere. Every corner. Every street. Every city and state.

Sammy’s just a kid. He can’t know this stuff. He can’t even swing higher than a foot. 

What’ll happen if he finds out ghosts are real?

-

Sunday.

Bugs Bunny on the TV. Sam’s engrossed. Mac gave him homework. He _wanted_ some. Because Dean gets some, probably. He’s supposed to try to sign all day. His eyes are glued to the television set. His hands are moving, fingers making words. He’s getting a lot of them wrong, Dean can tell.

Dean’s doing his own homework at the table. From school, though. Fractions. Yuck. 

Dad is sitting next to him, putting a file together. He’s got pictures of something, from the library. Drawings. Some kind of Old One. He looks up from his papers every now and then to watch the cartoon, too. Laughs a couple of times, a big booming laugh.

Dean watches his dad instead of the TV and feels his lips pulling up without his permission.

Ice Cream truck music outside. Sam jumps like someone stuck his fingers in a socket. Stares at Dad wordlessly, pleadingly. Dean looks at Dad too, waiting to see what he’ll say.

Dad looks up when he feels Sam’s gaze. Looks from him to Dean and back. Sighs.

“I’ll get some cash,” he says, standing up. Sam whoops and runs to the door.

Dean’s no slacker. He follows.

-

They’re walking along the street Dean’s house is on. Someone’s just mown their lawn – the air smells green. Dean can even taste it on his tongue. It’s a nice smell. An alive smell.

“I’m getting a Corvette,” Jeremy says. “White convertible. Black roof-bow.” He looks into the distance, with a dreamy smile on his face.

“Man, that is lame,” Cy snorts. Jeremy’s expression slips.

“Yeah? What car you gonna get?”

“It’s a Thunderbird for me, dude. I’ll get me some mag wheels, a paint job. I can see it now – racing strips.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jeremy mutters. “Let’s see you pass fourth grade first.”

“You callin’ me dumb, Winger?” Cy asks. 

He punches Jeremy’s shoulder. Jeremy punches back. Cy tackles Jeremy onto the grass of someone’s yard and they roll around for a few minutes, growling. They get up when they’re out of breath, blades of grass and stray leaves all over them. 

They fall into step again. Cy slaps Dean’s arm with the back of his hand.

“How ‘bout you Winchester? What kinda car you getting?”

That’s easy. Dean’s just flipping his notebook out when a tell-tale rumble sounds from behind them.

Wow. Dad’s got great timing.

The Impala rolls past them, and Dean points. Cy gives a low whistle.

Sammy’s standing in their yard when they get to the house. “Our grass is too short,” he says.

Lily’s hanging over the fence. She signs hello to Dean, a sort-of salute. “I agree,” she adds, looking at Sam.

“You’re too short, runt,” Cy says to Sam.

A flicker of hurt on Sam’s face, and a spark in the pit of Dean’s stomach. He ignores it.

Why’s our grass too short? he writes quickly.

“The raccoons. And chipmunks,” Sam says, like it makes sense. “It’s atrocious.” Typical. Can’t say Spaghetti-O’s properly, but he can say atrocious.

“ _Atrocious_?” Cy splutters.

“Yes,” Sam continues doggedly. _Dumbass_ is very much implied in his tone. “They have nowhere to hide because the grass is too short. We should grow it.”

Cy’s grin is huge. Shit-eating, Dad would say. Like, _can you believe what this kid is saying?_ Dean doesn’t know how it makes him feel. Weird, mostly. Sammy’s staring at Cy like he’s an alien.

“You can grow it,” Lily announces. “All you need is water and food and cover. We have it at home. The grass gets tall, and animals move in. It’s called a wildlife habitat.”

Okay. So Lily’s put him up to this. Figures.

We’re not going to live here that long, Dean scribbles out.

“Why aren’t you signing?” Lily asks, looking at Dean strangely.

Cy barrels right over her. “You moving man?”

No. Not right now. But we will, Dean writes. We always do.

“What’s your dad do?” Jeremy asks.

Traveling salesman, Dean writes.

Lily’s nose wrinkles. “Really? Where’s the stuff he sells? My uncle’s a traveling salesman and he’s got a garage full of stuff. You don’t even have a garage.”

Sammy’s watching Dean. Dean writes, We store it somewhere else. 

That seems to be the extent of everyone’s curiosity. They nod, move on.

Cy says, “I’m gonna play football. In high school. And college.”

Subject-change whiplash.

Dean knows what Jeremy’s gonna say before he opens his mouth. He’s the tallest kid in class. “I’ll go out for basketball.” He lifts his arms, pretends to shoot.

“I’m gonna be a cheerleader,” Sam says. He’s crouched down, now, staring at something in the grass.

Cy and Jeremy explode. They’re laughing so hard they can’t stand up. They fall to their knees on the sidewalk. Just when it looks like they’re about to stop, they look at each other and it starts all over.

Sam’s lower lips is jutting out a little.

“And what, exactly, is wrong with that?” Lily asks. She’s sitting atop the fence now. Her legs swing a little.

“Well,” Cy says breathlessly, “let’s see… um – he’s a _guy_?”

“Who says boys can’t cheerlead?”

“Everyone,” replies Cy.

“You don’t know anything. Men cheerlead in college. They get to hold girls up with one hand. You have to be really strong.”

“I’m really strong,” Sam pipes up. No sticky-outy lip anymore, Dean notices.

“What do you think Dean?” Lily asks suddenly.

He’s been quiet for too long.

Haha. That was a good one. Quiet for too long.

“Dean thinks boys can be cheerleaders,” Sam says right away. He looks at Dean then. “Right?” he asks, uncertainty wriggling in between his words.

All eyes on Dean.

He takes a breath. Writes it out on his notebook and holds it up.

Right.

Silence for a moment. Sam’s smile is blinding.

Cy shrugs. “Whatever, man. Hey, you wanna go to the 7-Eleven? I feel like a Snickers.”

Jeremy says, “Sure,” and Dean nods.

Off they go. Dean looks over his shoulder. Lily’s still on the fence, Sammy’s still in the yard. They’re both watching him.

-

Later.

It’s close to sunset. The air is cool. Dean’s sitting on the fence with Lily.

Hey, he signs. He takes out his notebook to write the next bit. That grass thing you told Sammy about. It’s a good idea.

“Right?” says Lily brightly. She signs it too. She asked Dean to teach her, a while ago. She’s a quick learner.

My mom liked gardening, he writes before he can stop himself.

“Cool,” Lily says. No questions. “My mom likes it too.” She asks him to sign the words he just wrote. Dean does.

Later he wonders if maybe she read the words wrong. _Likes_ instead of _liked_. Maybe. Maybe not.

It feels nice, though. To talk about his mom with someone and not have to think about the fire. Not have to think about the burning. To just say something and have that picture in his head – Mom with dirty cheeks and soil in her hair and huge gloves on her hands. 

Mom, rubbing dirt on his cheeks when he made fun of hers and laughing, easy as anything.

-

“So,” says Cy. “That monkey girl. On your fence. What’s her name?”

Dean stares at him blankly for a moment. Lily? he writes on his notebook.

It’s lunchtime. The cafeteria is exploding with noise.

“Yeah. Why doesn’t she go to school? I never seen her here.”

She’s homeschooled, Dean writes. Her mom let her take a vacation to visit her grandma.

“Homeschooled?” says Went. “What’s the mean?”

“It means,” says Cy, “that she’s too dumb for real school. So she has to stay home.”

There must be something showing on Dean’s face. The pain of his stomach tying itself into knots, slowly. Cy glances at Dean, then says, “What, you don’t think so?”

Dean shakes his head. Shrugs. Shakes his head again.

“You sit on the fence with her, don’t you?” Penn asks. Pops a chicken nugget in his mouth.

Cy grins. Jeremy grins. They’re all grinning, like they know something Dean doesn’t.

“Aw, does Dean-o have a girlfriend?” Jamie says.

Dean shows him the middle finger. It rolls right off.

“Betcha he holds her hand,” Jeremy says, snickering. “Holds her hand while they sit on the fence together.”

“Two little monkeys,” Cy adds. They collapse all over the table, giggling.

Bullshit, Dean writes. His breathing’s getting faster. Head’s hurting a little.

Sammy shows up right then.

Cy looks up long enough to say, “You should watch out Dean, she’s turning your brother into a little girl.”

Sammy looks like he’s been slapped. He looks from Cy to Dean. He doesn’t even know what they’re talking about.

The laughing goes on, and Dean’s just – had it. He slams his fist down on the table. Trays clatter. Everyone sits up. 

Cy rolls his eyes. “Take a joke, jeez.”

Everyone goes back to their food. Just like that.

-

After school.

“Dean!”

Lily again. “Hiiiiiii!” she calls. Waves at him.

Dean ignores her.

-

“What’s wrong with you?” Lily asks.

Dean doesn’t say anything. Stays there, on the grass. Picks a few blades out.

He’s waiting for Sammy. He just went inside to pee.

“It’s your friends, isn’t it?” Lily says. “The dumb ones.”

Dean pulls his notebook out. They’re not dumb.

“Yes they are,” Lily says. “Because they think boys can’t be cheerleader and they hated me for no reason and you stop signing when you’re around them.”

Maybe boys don’t cheerlead, Dean writes. And then, adds, They didn’t hate you and I don’t stop signing.

“They do, they do and you do,” Lily says. “They’re stupid. Stupid, ugly losers. I’m glad I don’t go to school, if those are the kind of dumb kids there.”

Dean glares at her. They aren’t stupid. You don’t know anything.

“They are. They’re like… pigs.”

They think you’re a monkey, Dean signs then, quick as lightening. Lily’s gaze is blank, so Dean writes it down.

“And what do you think?” Lily asks. Her eyes flash. The wind blows her black hair around. 

Nothing, Dean writes. Just. You think they’re pigs. They think you’re a monkey.

He shrugs. Lily’s eyes narrow. “Have fun playing with your dumb pig friends, Dean.” 

She flounces back inside.

-

Dean pokes Sammy under the covers.

He rolls over, tired-eyed. Flashlight comes out from under his pillow. He flicks it on and they squint at each other.

You can be a cheerleader if you want, Dean says. The “cheerleading” sign is weird. Like he’s waving pom-poms. I won’t laugh at you, he adds.

“Really?” Sam asks.

Dean nods. He pulls a Mars bar from underneath his pillow.

“Where do you get this stuff?” Sam says, wide-eyed now. Dean splits the bar. Gives Sam the bigger half.

It’s to help Dad, Dean tells him.

Sam looks confused. “Why does Dad need help?” he asks, mouth full of chocolate.

So he has more time to work, Dean signs.

“Why does he need more time to work? He already works ALL THE TIME.”

I was supposed to help him, Dean signs. I’m ten. That’s old enough.

“So?”

Can’t now. Can’t talk.

“Oh,” says Sam. “Because you have to talk to sell things?”

Dean nods.

“Oh,” Sam says again. He doesn’t say anything after that.

-

Dean gets sick. Not like last time, but he has to stay home and Dad takes him to the hospital, a crazy-scared look in his eyes.

The doctor says he’s fine. Healthy as can be expected. Recovering nicely. Getting his weight back. It’s just a bit of a cold.

Dad stays home for a few days anyway. Tells Mac to take a break.

It’s almost June. There are flowers everywhere.

-

Dad finds the stash. It’s been getting bigger. There’s more than candy now. Last time, Dean stole a box of Lucky Charms. Dean hardly uses any of it. A couple of treats for Sammy sometimes. A snack for himself when he gets really hungry.

“Where the fuck—?” he says from the kitchen, and Dean knows, knows right away that he’s seen.

Dean was stupid. He should have hidden it better. He didn’t realize what Dad being around meant. It meant he’d do the cooking and open cupboards and stuff.

Dad comes out of the kitchen, walks over to the sofa, where Dean is curled up. He holds up a handful of candy bars.

“Anything you want to tell me about?”

Dean goes wide-eyed. Shrugs.

“Dean,” Dad says flatly. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t Sammy. And Mac wouldn’t just buy us a bunch of food for no reason. And you sure do take a lot of trips to the Mini-Mart and 7-Eleven with those kids you hang out with.”

Dean pulls the blanket over his nose. Dad sits down on the table, across from the sofa. He puts the candy down and sighs heavily.

“I want you to tell me the truth. Right now.”

It’s the Very Serious Voice.

I stole it, Dean signs.

“You stole it,” Dad repeats. It’s not a question. “Why?”

Dean swallows. His ears are burning. Cheeks too. Wanted to help you, his fingers say. He doesn’t look at Dad. There’s fuzz on the blanket.

“Help me?”

Get food and stuff.

“Dean,” Dad says then, gruffly. Dean keeps staring at the blanket-fuzz. “Kiddo, look at me.” Dean does. “I don’t need that kind of help. I’ve got it covered. You don’t need to worry.”

Dean sits up, quick. But – but—

He pulls out his notebook. But this way, you don’t have to do it. I can help, and you can hunt even more! I can do it, Dad, I swear.

His scribbles are nearly illegible. Dad stares at the page for a long time, before looking up at Dean. Dean twists the pencil between his fingers.

“I know you want to help, son,” Dad says. “And that’s great. But this isn’t your job. I’m handling it. You don’t need to worry at all, okay?”

He doesn’t think Dean can do it. Dean slumps. Nods. Okay. Okay, fine. Yeah, fine. Sure.

“No more stealing, right? Mary would stake me if she knew.” The last part is quieter, under his breath. He’s staring into the distance. Then back at Dean. “We got a deal, kiddo?”

Dean nods again. Okay, fine. Yeah, fine. Sure.

Dad pats his cheek a little and then goes back to the kitchen.

-

“Mini-Mart after school, man!” Cy says as they head to recess. “Sound good?”

Go without me, Dean writes.

“What? Dude, why?”

I’m done with it. I don’t want to do it anymore. It’s stupid.

“ExCUSE me?” Cy says, baffled, stopping in the middle of the hall. Dean makes to walk past him, but he grabs his jacket.

They’re nose to nose. “Why not?” Cy asks.

Dean keeps his eyes on Cy as he writes on the notebook. Shoves the pad in front of Cy’s nose.

Because, it says. Just that. Because.

He walks away.

“What?” Cy shouts. “What? You too good for us? Huh? Going to play with your girlfriend after school, is that it?”

Dean doesn’t turn.

“FINE,” Cy shouts. “FINE. You’re just a retarded loser anyway!”

Dean swallows.

Somehow, it doesn’t surprise him much. Those words coming out of Cy’s mouth.

He thought maybe Cy was the right person, like Mac said.

Guess he thought wrong.

-

Tuesday. P.E.

Mark’s back from suspension. The gym teacher tells him and Cy to pick teams for kickball.

When there are only three kids left, the picking halts. Neither Cy nor Mark want to pick Dean, he can tell. But they both know he’s the best player.

“What’s the holdup?” the gym teacher shouts from where she’s setting up bases. “You’re supposed to be picking teams, not conducting a romance! Speed it up!”

They do.

Dean’s last to be picked anyway.

-

They show up at the house. Cy, Jeremy, Jamie, Went and Penn.

“C’mon, Winchester!” they call from outside, when Dean doesn’t go to the door.

Dad looks up from his book. Dean keeps his eyes on the TV.

“DEAN!”

Dean gets up. Dad looks back at his book.

He opens the door, nods at them.

“C’mon man,” says Cy. “Let’s go. The 7-Eleven’s waitin’ for ya.”

Dean sighs. Writes, Didn’t I tell you I’m done?

“You weren’t serious, though, right? It’s okay, we forgive you, that’s what the family does. Sometimes you say dumb things.”

Lily’s peering over the fence.

Dean looks at her, then writes, Yes, you do. But this wasn’t. I was serious. I’m done.

They exchange glances. Jeremy steps forward. “You know what this means, right? You can’t be part of our family anymore.”

Dean shrugs like it doesn’t matter. Feels his throat close up.

Cy huffs a disbelieving laugh. “This guy’s just too good for families, I guess. Too good for rules, right?” He looks at Dean, like Dean’ll agree. “It must like, what is it? Run in your family right? Your mom left, didn’t she? Just up and disappeared. Forgot how to be a mom. Now you forget how to be a brother. Figures.”

Dean’s cold, suddenly. Cold as ice.

Cy seems to read Dean’s expression. "Yeah, your brother told us. The little girl-boy. Told us she just vanished ‘cause she didn’t want to be with you anymore.”

Fire in Dean’s eyes. Fire, fire, fire. He’s on Cy before he knows what’s happened, just wants to hurt him, hurt him like his mom hurt, burn him up. Someone’s making weird noises. Grunting, crying noises.

Oh. Is that him? It is. It’s _him_ making that noise.

Cy’s face is covered in red. He’s shrieking. A girl’s screaming, “DEAN!” Lily.

Then, “Hey – hey! Dean, stop, stop—” and Dean’s being lifted up, hands around his ribs. He tries to hang on to Cy, manages one last good kick to his nose. More blood gushes out. He sucks in a breath and screams, a gurgling animal scream. Lily’s eyes are wide, her hands covering her mouth. She’s in their yard.

“Get the fuck out of here!” Dad says to Cy and the others. Dean struggles in his grasp. “I’ll be calling your parents!”

Cy’s crying like a baby. Maybe he’ll need two glass eyes now. 

Dad hauls Dean inside and shuts the door. Sets him down. Dean turns, red still in his eyes. Spots Sammy. 

Sammy, who is wide-eyed and sucking his fingers. Really scared, then. Terrified.

Dean stalks up to him and shouts in his face. Pushes him. He lands on his butt, face crumpling immediately. Dean doesn’t care. He hates him. Hates God for taking Mom and giving him _that_. A brother who doesn’t even know – doesn’t even know what his mom _did_.

“Dean!” Dad says. Dean doesn’t listen. Doesn’t care. He runs to his room and slams the door shut. Sits with his back against it and cries. Cries loud and hard, cries, cries, cries.

She saved him. She saved him and he told them she left. He told them she forgot.

-

He thought he had it. Friends, everything in order, everything under control. It hurts that he didn’t.

-

A quiet knock on the door. Dean’s half-asleep, right there on the carpet.

“Dean-o?” It’s Dad. Dean jumps up. Almost falls back down. His legs are wobbly.

Dad comes in. He looks at Dean, standing there, and then lifts him up. Like Dean’s a little kid. He sets Dean down on the bed, sits next to him.

“I think we need to have a talk,” Dad says gently.

Dean looks at his hands.

“Sammy’s been telling me some stuff. Stuff I – stuff I should have seen I guess. I don’t know. I thought you and I were on the same page. Now Sam’s worried that I’m forgetting how to be a dad and I’ll disappear.” Dad laughs. Dean doesn’t see why. It’s not funny, not even a little.

“First,” Dad says, and he puts a finger under Dean’s chin, lifts until Dean’s looking Dad in the eye. “You pushed Sammy out there.”

He said, Dean signs furiously. Can’t even make the words properly, he’s so angry again.

Dad nods. “To the kids, right? I know. I heard. But you know, Dean, Sammy doesn’t know what happened to Mom. And I guess… Sam’s just like your mom, you know? Sharp as a tack. Nothing gets past him. We didn’t tell him anything, so he came to his own conclusions. That’s not really Sam’s fault.”

He has to know she’s dead, Dean writes on his tear-stained notepad. It’s easier than signing at the moment.

Dad shakes his head. “But he doesn’t. He’s smart, but he’s still just a kid. He doesn’t really get it – and we never told him either. So to Sammy, if he doesn’t have a mom, it doesn’t mean she’s dead, it means she’s just gone. And maybe if she’s gone, it's because she wanted to be. The end.”

Dean looks at his notebook. His messy writing. Sniffs a little.

“You understand that, right Dean? Sam didn’t know. It's not his fault. It’s mine.”

Dean looks up at his dad then and Dad doesn’t look away. So Dean nods.

“Now, the other day I talked to you about the stealing, right? And you told me you could help out and I can hunt even more.”

Dean nods a little. His ears burn, hearing his own words back.

“Sammy was telling me something else. About how you told him you were supposed to help me on my job when you turned ten? And can’t now? Because you can’t talk?”

Dean shrugs, when the silence stretches.

“Dean-o. Don’t you think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself?”

Dean looks up again, confused.

“Ten? Is big. You’re not a little kid anymore. But ten’s not old enough to hunt, not really. Even if you could talk. Hunting is still my job, and when you’re old enough, you’ll help me out. Whether or not you can talk. But that time isn’t right now and you don’t need to worry about it. We’ll jump that hurdle when we get to it. And we will because you? You’re my partner. And someday, I’m gonna need you to have my back, in a more literal sense. But for now, I think I’m holding down the fort.”

Dean looks down, again. His eyes are pricking.

“But you know, you do have a job. You have my back every day.”

How? Dean asks.

“By watching out for of Sammy. Don’t you think that’s important?”

Dad’s serious. He’s not joking. He’s really asking. Dean nods. Nods hard. Of course it is. Of course. But Dean would do that anyway, any day. He already does. It’s not his _job_.

“Exactly. It’s very important. Because I can’t be around all the time. And there’s no one I could really trust to keep Sam safe – except you. Because I see the way you look at him, and I know your brother’s special to you. Just like you’re special to me. Right?”

Dean nods and Dad pulls him close. He’s warm. Dean feels shivery, against him. Dad wraps him up tighter.

“That’s how it works – I watch out for you, when you need me to, and you watch out for Sammy. Those are our real jobs.

“And you’re always going to be a part of this family. You’re always going to be important. Whether or not you can talk. Whether or not you take care of Sammy. Whether or not you do anything. Because I love you, and nothing can stop that. _Nothing_. Not even God. You know that right?”

Dad’s beard presses to Dean’s forehead, scratchy. He nods against it. It tickles. He’s crying again. Can’t help it.

Dad pulls back a little and rubs his rough thumbs over Dean’s cheeks.

“I want you to remember everything I just said, Dean, okay? When things get bad?” Dad says seriously. “Never forget it. Because it’s not going to change, not today, not tomorrow, not fifty years from now. I can’t stop loving you. And you don’t need to earn your place in this family. That’s not how things work.”

Dean nods again. He’ll remember. He will. Dad’s lips pressed against his forehead.

“You’re going to have to apologize to Sam, you know?”

I know, Dean says with his hands.

“Okay,” Dad says with a sigh, and a small smile. He ruffles Dean’s hair. 

“Now - how does Chinese takeout sound?”

-

Sam’s sitting at the kitchen table. Dad goes into his room to call for takeout.

Dean goes over to the table. Pulls out the chair next to Sam’s and slides into it. Sam doesn’t say anything, just watches him.

Dean knows the signs for _I’m sorry_. He’s never had to use them before, though. He doesn’t know if Sam knows them. So he makes his mouth move, shape the only word it still can: Sammy.

He writes it down on his notebook. I’m sorry.

Sam nods. “It’s okay. You were mad.”

Dean nods too. Looks at the table, its worn wood.

“Hey,” Sammy says. Dean looks up. “You made a sound. That was really cool.”

Dean stares at his brother for a long time. His pesky, clingy, smart-alecky little brother – he grabs him in a strangling hug.

Sammy makes a surprised noise into Dean’s shoulder and Dean hugs him all the tighter. 

“Not that cool,” Sam chokes out.

Dean laughs, soundless. Stupid little dweeb.

-

Dean knocks.

It takes a while but Miss Birdie answers. She smiles brightly.

“Hello Dean! Are you looking for Lily?”

Dean nods.

“Her mom came to town yesterday. They’ve gone out together. But I can tell her you were here.”

Dean nods again and hands her a folded piece of paper. It says _Lily_ on it, in his best writing.

Miss Birdie’s new smile is small. “I’ll make sure she gets this,” she says warmly.

Thank you, Dean signs. He doesn’t know if she’ll understand, but he forgot his notebook.

Miss Birdie’s eyes twinkle. You’re welcome, she signs back.

-

“You’re not going to sit with Cy?” Sam asks, following Dean past their old table.

Dean shakes his head, looking down at Sam.

“Oh. Are you gonna sit with someone else?”

Dean nods. Cool, he signs.

“Someone cooler?” Sam clarifies. He looks perplexed.

Yes. My little brother.

“You don’t have another brother,” Sammy says, looking stung. His eyes widen. “Oh. OH! You mean ME!”

The whole cafeteria’s probably heard him. But, still. It’s like the sun coming out from behind the clouds and it feels good. Warms Dean right up.

“Let’s go then!” Sam crows, and he leads the way, head held high.

Dean can’t keep the grin off his face.

-

The school bus whooshes to a stop at their house.

Dean jumps down. Sam follows.

“Hey!”

It’s Lily. She runs down her path, up theirs.

Stands there for a moment, looking at Dean. She holds up the note Dean sent her. 

It says, Sometimes people say stupid things.

“You’re right,” she says. Tugs at her long hair. “Sometimes they do. Even me.”

Dean nods then. Shrugs a little. Makes a face.

Lily grins. “I forgive you too.”

She walks up to him and hooks her hand in his.

Dean doesn’t mind it. Not one bit.

“You look happy,” she says.

Sam hooks his hand in Dean’s other. Looks up at him. “You _do_ look happy,” he says.

Dean shrugs. He keeps walking.

Lily and Sammy swing his arms.

Maybe he is. Happy, that is.

Maybe he is.

-


End file.
